


A Vibrating Tune

by Giroshane



Series: Gifted [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (it's Illya's turn), Developing Relationship, Gen, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Multiple, Superpowers, We're in full slow burn stages now babeyyy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24932734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giroshane/pseuds/Giroshane
Summary: Istanbul was fine enough. It certainly didn’t go off without a hitch (there were quite a few hitches, in fact), but at least it wasn’t as bad as Rome. Gaby actually rather enjoyed it.Istanbul went well until it didn’t. Even then, it wasn’t a total disaster, but then again, Rome was a high bar to beat. That is to say: at least no one got tortured.Not for lack of trying.Istanbul went terribly. It was messy, it was confusing, it was not at all up to Napoleon’s standard of work. He wouldn’t deign to say it was as bad as Rome, but goddamn it came pretty close.---Or, The Istanbul Affair in three nutshells.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller
Series: Gifted [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764019
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	1. The Beginning: Gaby

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Took a little longer than expected for the next installment in this series, such is life. This story absolutely got 100% away from me, it's much longer than I would have liked it to be (for context, these 3 chapters were originally going to be the short prologues to the next larger installment). And then the word count started creeping up and up and I realized, no, this was a full story my brain wanted to tell. So here it is in all its glory! Please enjoy while I stare in horror at my apparently tireless hands.

Istanbul was fine enough. It certainly didn’t go off without a hitch (there were quite a few hitches, in fact), but at least it wasn’t as bad as Rome. Gaby actually rather enjoyed it.

They were debriefed on the plane. Julien Diamez had been double-dealing weapons to anyone who would buy, from insurrectionist groups that could destabilize the country _again_ to larger terrorist groups that could threaten the rest of Europe. UNCLE had decided to take him off the market nonlethally, in order to hopefully use him to track down further unsavory characters. Julien Diamez, if their intelligence was to be believed, made Napoleon look like a prude. He had a penchant for homewrecking, going after women dissatisfied with their marriages and causing nothing but trouble. Apparently he did this to his buyers constantly, using his deals as leverage to fuck around. So on this occasion, Gaby would have to play wife _again_. Not exactly something she was keen on, but this time she was paired with Napoleon, not Illya. The Russian wasn’t exactly pleased with this.

“Why Solo?” He asked immediately. 

“Well, to put it simply, we want Julien to be wary, but not wary enough to stay away completely. And he’ll be much more willing to engage with an American capitalist that can be as brash as he is, than, say, a…” Waverly paused to choose his words carefully, “Russian who looks like he can snap him in half.”

“I’m more sociable.” Napoleon shot Illya a smile, and Illya glowered back.

“I say this with highest respect, as well, but I believe Ms. Teller will have an easier time playing dissatisfied wife if it’s against Solo’s bravado than your enigmatic quiet, Kuryakin.” Waverly said. “We need that quiet elsewhere.”

Illya would be posing as an immigrant tailor, trying to get a new foothold in his new country. He was getting a position at Diamez’s favorite tailor shop (which oh so conveniently just had an opening), and therefore could ingratiate himself to the arms dealer--or eavesdrop on him at the very least, and provide backup. Illya couldn’t argue that. With their intel and mission in hand, Waverly had let them be. He went to go talk to the pilots.

“Don’t understand, why not just have one dealer, no wife. Needless variable.” Illya complained. 

“Because we need to lure him in and _keep_ him where we want him. A mark will do anything you want him to if he thinks he has the upper hand.” Napoleon pointed out. “I’m sure Gaby and I will have plenty of fun playing cat and mouse with him, right dearest?”

He grinned and winked at her, and Gaby returned the smile in equal measure. His charm always exasperated her, but it was starting to get under her skin in a good way, somehow. There wasn’t any intent to it, or a front, like with other people. For her it was a hollow mask, allowing her to see glimpses of the man beneath.

“Two cats to one mouse doesn’t seem entirely fair.” She said casually. 

“Would you rather I kept him to myself?” Napoleon raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh, and let you have all the fun?” She fired back. 

She heard Illya grumble in Russian, something she couldn’t understand. It occurred to her that he still wasn’t used to her being a fellow agent--he’d only learned a little over twenty-four hours ago that she wasn’t just some little chop shop girl, after all. He was protective, if not jealous, and probably didn’t like to hear that she could be as manipulative as any other spy in the business (or try to be, at least). Which was silly, and he would have to learn better. But still. She thought about what he’d promised her in the belly of the aircraft carrier, when she’d come clean about her Gift and was putting it to the ultimate test.

She shot a knowing look at Napoleon--who looked like he _had_ understood the Russian and was rolling his eyes--and stood up. She and Napoleon were sat across the aisle from each other in a regular passenger row, but Illya had snagged one of the dining seats in the row in front, to stretch out those huge legs of his. He was currently slouched in his seat with his arms crossed. Gaby moved to the opposite seat and leaned forward on the table, placing her head in her hands.

“So, Mr. Grumpyface,” She said teasingly. His scowl didn’t ease, “we still need to get even.”

That got his attention. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“I showed you mine, you show me yours?” Gaby prompted. “If we’re sticking together for the foreseeable future, why not get a little more comfortable, ah?”

Illya considered that for a moment, before relaxing slightly and leaning forward. He tapped the table thoughtfully, glanced around for Waverly (who was still in the cockpit) then asked, “Do you have a coin?”

Gaby’s purse was back at her seat. Before she could answer, though, a coin was flipped onto the table with a high-pitched clatter.

“I have to admit, Peril, your Gift still baffles me.” Napoleon said, sliding smoothly into the seat next to Gaby. “I wouldn’t mind a proper demonstration myself.”

Illya looked about ready to close off again, but in the end he took the coin, turning it over in his fingers. It was an Italian lira.

“Hold out your hand.” He told Gaby. She did. He dropped the coin into it. It felt like a coin. She gave him a confused look and he gestured for her to wait. He reached out and tapped it. Immediately, it felt like she was holding _nothing_. She jerked, surprised, and the coin slid from her palm. It fell slowly to the table, falling like a feather instead of a coin, and when it hit the table, it bounced off of it delicately. She tapped it off her fingers; it danced along them like it was no more than a balloon. She closed her fist around it, then held her hand open again. It settled back into her palm, and she couldn’t hide her amazement.

“Weight manipulation.” Solo called, eyeing the coin intensely. 

“Gravitational manipulation.” Illya corrected. “Difference.”

“How so?” 

“The coin still weighs the same. Does not feel like it, but it does. Weight is force of gravity on mass. I change its relationship to the earth itself, thus, its gravity.” Illya took the coin from Gaby’s hand and held it out to Napoleon, nodding his head to encourage him to open his hand. Napoleon eyed the Russian warily for a moment, before holding out his open palm. Like before, Illya dropped the coin into it. This time, though, Napoleon’s hand immediately slammed down to the table with a _THUD._ Napoleon winced. 

Gaby watched his hand and forearm flex as he tried to lift the coin. She glanced at Illya, alarmed. He looked quite pleased with himself. She reached over and tried to pry the coin off of Napoleon’s palm. She could wedge her fingers between his skin and the coin, but she couldn’t get any leverage against it. It felt like trying to lift a huge stone. 

Finally, after several seconds of futile struggling, Illya finally took pity on them and tapped the coin again. But Gaby and Napoleon were still trying to lift it, and their hands flew up from the momentum, taking the coin with it. They heard it clatter somewhere else along the plane. Illya didn’t laugh, but his shoulders were shaking as he smiled.

“Didn’t figure you for the showman type, Peril.” Napoleon commented, rubbing his hand.

“He can when he wants to be.” Gaby said, remembering his completely made up presentation at the Steps. She smiled at Illya, partly chiding him for hurting Napoleon and partly amused herself. “A Gift like that could be very useful.”

Illya shrugged.

“Easy on myself. Like,” He paused to find the word, “instinct. Other things, other people, it becomes harder. Like stretching a rubber band.”

“How hard?” Solo asked. “You told me at the villa it was draining.”

“Да. Headaches.” Illya shrugged again, but this time Gaby could tell he was getting defensive; he crossed his arms back over his chest. He didn’t exactly want to share the drawbacks of his Gift. She remembered how pale Carmen Flores, the nurse that was with Waverly on the aircraft carrier, had been after she’d used her healing Gift on them; she remembered her own exhaustion, after using her Gift so much in the span of twenty four hours, and how she'd pretty much passed out for the rest of the day until it was time to pack and check out of their rooms. She imagined it was much the same with Illya.

“It’s subtle.” She said. “Good for a spy.”

He nodded, smirk tugging at his lips.

“Very subtle. Most people do not notice when I use it on them.” He said.

“That a challenge, Peril?” Solo raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Hard to be a challenge when you’ve already won it.” Illya scoffed. When Gaby and Napoleon stared at him for that, he did not relent, only smiled wider. It was odd to see the Russian so cheery, but she wasn’t about to ruin his good mood. She liked his smile. Instead she thought about how she’d _physically_ felt around Illya. Tried to recall times where she might have felt heavier or lighter. Immediately she recalled their mad dash to the command center after arming the warhead. 

“You used it on me this morning.” She said, eyes widening. “After fixing the missile.”

“Да.” Illya confirmed. His expression turned gentle, and her heart melted just a little bit more. “You were tired. So I made it easier for you to move faster.”

“He did that for me at the Vinciguerra’s villa.” Solo said. Gaby pursed her lips and tried to argue to herself that he didn’t just ruin a moment.

“That was not subtle.” Illya shook his head. “And I still had to explain it to you.” 

“Not my fault the KGB mislabeled your Gift.” 

“Misdirection, not mislabel. Not my fault you couldn’t see through it.” Illya said matter-of-factly. 

Gaby thought backwards, through the events of the past few days.

“The motorcycle. When Vinciguerra ran you off the road.” She said.

“Just myself, not motorcycle. But yes, to try and break my fall.” He nodded. 

“Even when you threw that motorcycle?” Napoleon asked, bewildered. 

“Not all my strength is in my Gift.” Illya said plainly.

“You...you threw a motorcycle.” Gaby blinked. She had been battling unconsciousness at that point; all she could remember was the sounds of fighting.

“Yes.”

 _Wow_. She thought to herself.

“Well, I know you used it on me at the villa. And at the factory the night before.” Napoleon pondered. He was also trying to pin down memories.

“Yes, but I told you about those times.” Illya said. Napoleon frowned.

“Well you had to have used it in East Berlin.” He said.

“Of course. Had to keep up with Chop Shop’s driving.” Illya said. Gaby felt a burst of pride, though she only gave a small smile to show it.

“And dodge bullets.”

“No, that was just you shooting slow.”

Napoleon pursed his lips, but didn’t argue, however much he appeared to want to. He was much more deadset at the task at hand. After about another minute he finally said:

“The coffee shop. When we first met. Officially, that is.”

Illya’s brow furrowed--this apparently wasn’t on his list. He opened his mouth to protest, then paused. He thought. His expression relaxed to neutral and he shrugged.

“I will give you that one. Lost my temper.”

Gaby had to wonder what the two were talking about, but neither man dwelled on the subject.

“That’s...all, Peril.” Napoleon said, for once in his life not sounding perfectly certain.

“Sure, you can believe that.” Illya nodded, making Solo’s frown grow deeper. Gaby had to suppress a snort; this was going to occupy the American for days.

She picked at her nails, a bad habit she’d never been able to break.

“At least yours is subtle.” She said. “I’m not so lucky.”

“No, very lucky. To hide so well with such a strong Gift.” Illya countered, shaking his head. 

“Please, it’s not that strong.”

“Subtle or not, you still fooled three separate intelligence agencies into thinking you were unGifted, and that’s one hell of a feat.” Napoleon pointed out. Gaby felt heat rush to her cheeks at the compliment. “And you repaired a bomb. Which, I have to say, I still don’t fully understand how you did that, either.”

“Are you asking for a demonstration?” She tilted her head.

“Only if you’re offering.” Solo replied with a winning smile, but she could see the curiosity in his eyes.

“I do not think that’s necessary.” Illya interrupted. “No need to push yourself so soon.”

“I know my limits, Illya.” Gaby said, irritation quickly trumping the truth in his words.

“It can’t be that bad--” Napoleon said.

“It’s not, but a Gift is _supposed_ to be private, I only promised _Gaby_ to share mine--”

“I insist.” She cut Illya off.

“The lady insists.” Napoleon parroted. Illya scowled, but Gaby ignored it. Lord, was he jealous over her Gift just like he was jealous over the rest of her? Or did he just mistrust Solo that much? She faced the American.

“Can you get me a radio, or something? Electric, preferably.” She asked sweetly. He nodded and left. In his brief absence, she leaned forward, and kicked Illya under the table. The man grunted.

“Play nice.” She hissed at him. He frowned, a look that told her plainly, _I play nice with_ you, and she added, “With _both_ of us.”

He huffed and sat back in his seat, unamused.

“We’re a team, remember.” She said, a split-second before Napoleon slipped back into his seat. He set a clunky looking transceiver of some kind on the table. Gaby picked it up and turned it over in her hands. Her Gift had been used on cars and car parts for the majority of her life, so there was always a degree of challenge to working on something that wasn’t a car. But she’d also repaired the radios in the shop on the rare occasion they broke, and this couldn’t be too far off. She held it out to Illya.

“If you would, dearest.”

Illya rolled his eyes, but obediently took the transceiver. He tested the weight of it (or was he making it lighter, and easier to shatter? She’d always be wondering that now, wouldn’t she), and when she nodded encouragingly, proceeded to crush and bend the device with his bare hands. Metal dented with a screech, wires snapped. Gaby was fairly certain she saw a spring or two, and the plastic of the display screen broke. When Illya was satisfied, he dropped it back onto the table. 

“That...was CIA issued.” Napoleon said flatly.

“Oh no. So sad. So cheap and broken so easily.” The Russian deadpanned. Gaby laughed and pulled the wrecked device closer to her herself.

“Don’t worry.” She assured Solo, calling on her Gift. The universe sang. She listened.

Truth to tell, she was still exhausted from the events of the past few days, and the song was harder to hear than it usually was just because of that alone. But she squinted, bit her lip in concentration, and doubled down on the transceiver. When she finally felt she had a good grip on the melody, sparks dancing down to her fingers, she began poking and prodding at the device. The sparks leapt from her fingertips to the dented metal, the twisted wires. Springs compressed themselves back into place, and the plastic pieces reassembled on the front of the transceiver. Finally, the symphony was complete, and the transceiver sat on the table, looking as though Illya had never touched it at all. She set it down and sat back in her seat. She hoped neither of them noticed that she was breathing heavily.

Solo looked, in a word, _stunned_. He reached out for it, but hesitated.

“It won’t bite you.” Gaby said. He didn’t look like he quite believed her, but he picked up the transceiver. He turned it over, examining it for what, she didn’t know. Finally he looked back at her.

“You know, in East Berlin,” He said, “I thought that car was in for a simple tune-up or something, to get on the road so fast. It was the only way I could make sense of it.”

“I’m glad it was. Last thing I needed was you telling the CIA what I can do.” Gaby said. 

“Oh no, of course, I understand that.” Napoleon said, with a smile that wasn’t flirtatious or cheeky or some kind of mask. “I’m just... _impressed_.”

“Да. It’s amazing.” Illya said softly. They were both staring at her with the same kind of reverence she’d seen in Illya on the aircraft carrier and suddenly she felt caged in. Her heart fluttered in her chest. She was proud, but this was still too much direct attention. This was too much pressure.

“So!” She said loudly, turning to Napoleon. “It’s your turn.”

“What?” The American started.

“You know mine, you know Illya’s, now we learn your Gift.” 

“Oh, ah…” Solo hesitated.

“Come on, it’s only fair.” Gaby insisted. She leaned in, chin in her hands. To her surprise, he moved away. He looked rather put on the spot, and she found that amusing. “I bet it’s how charming you are. You can get anyone to like you.” She heard Illya snort. “Or… you can make stuff vanish. It’s how you’re such a good thief. Or--”

“None of the above, I’m afraid.” Napoleon finally got a word in edgewise. He smiled at her, looking resigned. “I’m as unGifted as they come.”

“...What?” Gaby frowned. While sure, she hadn’t pegged him as Gifted when they’d first met, the man’s skill was undeniable. It made sense that he would have a Gift.

“I don’t have anything supernatural up my sleeve. All my talents are self-earned and self-learned.” He said with a smile, a bit of his mask returning. This wasn’t a subject he liked to talk about. Gaby could see why. While Gifted folk hardly made up a majority of the population, those that did often ended up in higher-risk jobs--like espionage. Illya was the perfect example. Not that unGifted people _couldn’t_ (after all, Waverly didn’t seek her out for her Gift), but there was usually a preference for Gifteds (after all, those were the ones abducted by the government the most, to use to their advantage). She wondered how many people had made her mistake.

“But you let people believe that you’re Gifted.” She said. His smile grew. It didn’t meet his eyes.

“Doesn’t hurt to be overestimated now and then.” Solo said. “Means people don’t know what to expect.”

“That’s...impressive.” Gaby said. His face pinched and she rushed to clarify. “Not that you’ve, I don’t know, made it far or whatever without a Gift, but that you’ve managed to trick so many. It’s a dangerous game.”

“It doesn’t always work.” Illya said.

“No.” Solo allowed. “But my whole life’s been a dangerous game. And it’s not about to let up yet.”

He had turned his attention towards the other end of the plane, and moments later Waverly called:

“Solo, can I have a word?”

Gaby watched him leave. 

“ _He’s_ not any less dangerous without a Gift.” Illya pointed out to her quietly.

“It’s not like he’s dangerous _to_ us.” Gaby retorted. “We’re a team.”

“For now. But do not trust him, on this mission.” He said. He was trying to warn her, but it only pissed her off.

“And trust you over him?” She snapped, rising to her feet. “Like you trusted _me_?” 

He recoiled from her words. 

“That is not what I--”

“Please. Trust? In this line of work? Don’t be silly.” She said, before stalking back off to her seat. Illya’s protectiveness was starting to rub her raw. No, not protectiveness. Jealousy. That had to be it. And that ticked her off just as much. She wasn’t _his_. She wasn’t anybody’s. She sighed with frustration as she rifled through her purse, just for something to do. She had hoped sharing their Gifts (or in Solo’s case, lack of one) would ease the tension, get him to relax and open up a little. Instead she felt even more closed off from him.

She had been turning over an idea in her head on the plane, but hadn’t known how to approach Illya about it. Now, she decided, she wouldn’t approach him at all. It’d be easier to ask Napoleon anyways, since they’d be sharing a room.

And a bed, as it turned out. As Illya and Gaby had been posing as an engaged couple, they had been given two beds; as a married couple, she and Napoleon had a large queen-sized bed all to themselves.

“I can take the couch, if you prefer.” He said. She shrugged.

“As long as you can keep your hands to yourself, I don’t see the problem in sharing.” She said. “There’s more than enough room, as long as you don’t hog the sheets.”

“You have my word as a gentleman, there will be plenty of sheets for the both of us.” He raised his hand as if swearing an oath. She chuckled as they set about organizing their things--or rather, Napoleon’s things. The man was quite meticulous, as much so as Illya had been if not worse, and insisted on unpacking all his belongings in the provided bureau, as opposed to Gaby, who was fine living out of her suitcase. That is, until Napoleon commandeered that as well.

“You can’t keep these folded up, they’ll get terribly wrinkled.” He said, affronted on behalf of her poor dresses. She rolled her eyes but left him to it, instead investigating the amenities, the decorations, and the balcony. 

Their room was directly across the street from the apartment building Illya was holed up in. She thought about trying to find his room, but it wasn’t like he was going to make an appearance in the window and wave to her, and risk blowing his cover. She took in the Istanbul skyline instead. Istanbul was stacked fairly close together, unlike Rome with its ancient sprawl. It was close to evening now, and their room faced the setting sun, burning the sky and all the pale-stoned buildings below angry shades of orange. She hummed. She thought about a drink, and how she might use one. She couldn’t exactly put a finger on why. She wasn’t necessarily celebrating this new chapter in her life. She wasn’t filled to the brim with anxiety like she had been in Rome, where she had drank herself silly and launched herself at Illya (which, to be fair, was the most fun she’d had in ages). 

Restlessness, she decided. She needed something to occupy her hands. There was always work to be done at the shop, but in espionage there was always so much more _talking_. Talking and negotiating and lying and misdirecting and trying not to get caught and hardly any of it involved keeping her hands busy.

Well, there was a solution to that.

“Dearest!” She called, turning and leaning her back against the edge of the balcony. It took almost half a minute before Solo stuck his head out the door, looking confused.

“Is there a problem?” He asked. She gave a slight shake of her head; she was just using the pet name to use the pet name, it was just as ridiculous to use on Napoleon as it was to use it on Illya. Well, that and she’d forgotten his cover’s name.

“What’s for dinner tonight? Something that smells like feet again?” She tilted her head. Napoleon looked slightly offended.

“No.” He said. “We’ll actually be going out this evening.”

“Where?” She asked. Solo stepped out onto the balcony proper and showed her a photo. It was grainy, but she could pick out Diamez at least, seated at an outdoor table with a few other men. There was a looping sign in Turkish above them. 

“If they were able to get a photo of him, he likely frequents the place.” He explained. “Figured we could brush shoulders there and get the ball rolling right away.”

“I thought we were supposed to wait for Illya’s initial surveillance--establish a presence and all that, then let Diamez approach _us_ .” Gaby pointed out, picking at her fingernails again. This reeked of Solo going behind Illya’s back, which didn’t quite surprise her, though it still irritated her a little. _Do not trust him on this mission_. She grit her teeth and pushed the memory away.

“Well, the thing about that is a couple doesn’t exactly come to Istanbul for a vacation and then develop a hankering for guns a few days in. Louis Franklin is an oil magnate looking to defend his turf; in all likelihood he saw the vacation his lovely wife Deirdre--” Gaby wrinkled her face at the name, she didn’t like it, “--nagged him about as an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, and he’s not a patient man.”

He smiled and let his story sink in, then added: 

“It’s also bold of you to assume Peril didn’t bug both of us to high hell and isn’t listening in as we speak, and therefore is perfectly up to date. Now I took the liberty of debugging all of our belongings--thank you for letting me handle that, by the way.”

Gaby glanced away. She’d just been too lazy and was willing to let Napoleon put away her things, the notion of being bugged didn’t even cross her mind.

“But I can’t vouch for anything you’re currently wearing on your person.” He finished.

Immediately her fingers moved past her nails to Illya’s ring. He had told her to keep it, as a souvenir, since they’d thought they were never going to see each other again. _So I can always keep track of you_. At the time it had felt sweet. Now it grated on her nerves. 

“Well, I think he’s heard all he’s needed to hear, then.” She said. She latched onto the barest hint of her Gift, hardly a tune, and sent it through the ring. It shocked her finger like static, and she was fairly certain that did the trick; Solo didn’t appear to even notice. “When do we have to leave to find this place? Do you even know where it is?...Do you even know Turkish?”

“No and no, but that’s part of the fun, in my opinion.” Napoleon said. “As for when, I’d say about a half hour.”

Gaby bit her lip. That was enough time, wasn’t it? It was enough to get started at least.

“Do you have your gun on you?” She asked.

“...Not _on_ me but I do have it, yes.” He said, looking slightly alarmed. “Why do you ask?”

“I want you to show me how it works.” Gaby said. Quickly she added, “how to take it apart and put it back together. I know how to fire a gun.”

Napoleon checked his watch.

“I suppose that’s one way to pass the time. But why, exactly, do you want to know that?”

Gaby debated not telling him for a moment, Illya’s words about trust niggling at the back of her skull (and beneath that, her foster father’s paranoia). _We’re a team this time, goddammit. A proper team._ She thought angrily. Illya and Napoleon were “on loan” (Waverly’s words) from their respective agencies, and this time they were all reporting back to UNCLE. There was no need for secrecy or double-dealing this time around.

“The more I work with something, the more I understand how it works on my own, the easier it is to use my Gift on it.” She said. Napoleon’s brow furrowed, and she could see the follow-up question coming from a mile away. She huffed and pushed herself off the balcony railing, and passed him back into the hotel room. 

“If things start going to shit, we’re going up against an arms dealer.” She explained as he followed behind. “An arms dealer will be much less dangerous if all his arms are damaged.”

He had moved into their bedroom as she spoke. He returned a few moments later with his pistol. 

“I feel like I missed something.” He said, as he weighed the gun in his hands. “I thought your Gift allowed you to repair electrical devices.”

“...Well, I said on the ship I was branching out.” Gaby shrugged and sat at the dining table. “Break, fix, I can do both.”

“Gaby, a gun isn’t electric.” Solo said. “It’s purely mechanical. I mean, I can’t say I understand it perfectly, it’s _your_ Gift and not mine, but from what I saw on the plane, it involves electrical currents, doesn’t it?”

That gave Gaby pause. She’d never thought about it that way before. But now that Napoleon pointed it out, it was easier to notice: everything she’d ever worked on, or repaired, had used electricity in some way. Had pulled at the sparks from her fingertips. Save for one thing.

“But I’ve done it before.” She said. Napoleon tilted his head, his small gesture for her to elaborate. “The Vinciguerras threw me into a cell. I tried to use my Gift to break the lock. Alexander came and got me before I could actually escape, but I touched it--and I heard it break.”

“...You’re sure?” Napoleon asked.

“ _Ja_ , I swear I heard its insides shatter.” Gaby insisted. “I know I can do it.” 

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She realized how it sounded; she’d done something that was outside the bounds of her Gift. But she had done it, she _knew_ she had done it. Which meant redefining the bounds of her Gift. Her jaw clenched; _this_ is why she’d told herself she’d need training once she got out of Rome. Not that she had an idea of what UNCLE training would look like, but better to be learning in a controlled environment instead of _on the job_.

“I need to practice more.” She said quietly, staring down at her hands. Solo didn’t say anything for a moment. She heard him breathe deeply, and then he was moving a chair around so he could sit next to her. 

“I suppose you didn’t really get the opportunity for that hiding out in East Berlin.” He said. He wasn’t laying on any kind of charm, and he wasn’t making a dig at the Soviet control. He simply looked sympathetic. Gaby nodded.

“Well, far be it from me not to help remedy that.” He told her, as he began methodically taking the pistol apart. “Now, this is a Browning Hi-Power, it’s a semi-automatic handgun. The “Hi-power” alludes to the fact that its magazine can hold up to 13 rounds, double that of your standard Luger or Colt…”

Solo rattled off facts about the gun like a walking encyclopedia. Gaby didn’t mind, the steady tempo of his voice was soothing, in a way. But mostly she focused on his hands, and the gun, and where he clicked pieces into place and slid them out one by one. There was a grace to his movements that rivalled her own. His signet ring glinted in the warm sunlight. It bore the initials of his cover, _L.F._ in looping cursive, and she paused to wonder how he’d gotten that arranged so fast. Then she chided herself and refocused on the gun.

When Napoleon had laid out every piece (which wasn’t a lot in total, to Gaby’s surprise), he showed his empty hands like a blackjack dealer.

“...There’s bushing, but it’s attached to the weapon itself, and unremovable.” He turned to her. “Did that make sense?”

“Yes.” She lied, since she’d hardly paid attention to a word he said. “You put it back together the same way?”

“Precisely. Here, I can--”

“Let me try.”

Solo gave her a look.

“You only just watched me dismantle it.”

“I learn fast.” She said, a touch of challenge to her voice. He gave her that baffled look, that he sometimes shot at Illya, the one that read of confusion and disapproval but no intention to actually argue it. He held his hands up and sat back.

“Be my guest, then.”

Gaby shifted her seat over a little to get better access to the components. Solo didn’t comment when their thighs brushed. She graced her fingers along every piece, trying to recall what their names were (maybe she should have listened a little bit more). Still, she remembered Napoleon’s actions clearly and they couldn’t be too hard to reverse engineer. She reloaded the barrel; then came twisting the spring back onto the little rod and then clicking that into place along the barrel. It really wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be--then again, it wasn’t like every gun she came across would dismantle like this. Still, it was better than nothing, and it would be a jumping off point for any other weapon she had to handle. As she slid the top part of the gun back into the frame, she reached out to the universe. She listened. It was still harder to hear, even more so than on the plane. She had to move slow, and wait for the melody to spark where her memory started to fail.

“Hold the catch like this--” Napoleon was suddenly reaching out, hands trying to direct her own. The spark leapt from her hands to his and back, and they both recoiled. It was nothing more painful than a strong static shock, but Gaby hadn’t realized how close they had been until they pushed away from each other. She felt heat rush to her cheeks.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Napoleon reassured her, smiling... _bashfully_? He tried to laugh it off, but it felt awkward, something she’d never expected from the spy. “Never interrupt a--a lady while she’s working. Uh, I--I should have known better.”

At that Gaby deflated.

“ _I_ hardly know better.” She huffed. “I didn’t even know that would happen if you touched me.”

“ _While_ you were working.” He pointed out. “Has anyone ever touched you while you were using your Gift?”

Gaby opened her mouth to say _of course_. Plenty of times other mechanics at the shop had tapped her shoulder as she bent over the engine, or her leg while she was under a car’s belly. Hell, on the aircraft carrier Illya hadn’t let go of her for a second while she repaired the missile. But that had been a steady hand at her back. The touch of others had always been through her clothes. Never her skin. She rubbed her hands together nervously, trying to let the spark fade.

“Not like that.” She said. She hissed in frustration. “Scheiße.”

“Gaby, the limits put on your learning by your circumstances are not your fault.” He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder (though he noticeably made sure he only touched fabric). “No one’s asking you to use your Gift on this mission.”

Sure, it wasn’t her fault, but wasn’t it her responsibility to remedy that? After all, Victoria Vinciguerra would have gotten off scot-free with the nuclear warhead if it hadn’t been for her pushing herself to her limits. It was her responsibility. 

But what if it saves your life, ah?” She barked. She grabbed the gun, pulled the universe’s song back into herself and finished latching it together. She grabbed the magazine, practically shoved it back in, and aimed it at Napoleon. He let go of her and moved away again. “If we’re staring down guns, outnumbered, what’s going to save us?”

She twisted the song she heard. Instead of listening to it and letting it slowly grow to its usual spark she practically _shoved_ it into her hands. It cracked through the gun, and the slide catch practically shot out the side. The slide itself shot forward, popping off the gun to bounce off of Napoleon’s chest with a _thump_. He jumped at the impact.

She slammed the rest of the gun down and stormed away from the table. The song echoed painfully, and the sparks wouldn’t go away this time. Her whole body felt like it was _throbbing_ , vibrating like metal struck too many times. 

“If I was more practiced I could have busted Alexander’s car.” She said, trying not to pant from exertion. “I could have stopped it and then he wouldn’t have run Illya off the road, and he wouldn’t have been able to--”

“You don’t know that.” Solo cut her off, standing as well. He reached for her, but she stepped away.

“Don’t.” She warned, voice cracking. “I’ll hurt you.”

That was a redefined boundary if she ever saw one. Her Gift couldn’t just fix people’s things or break people’s things; it could _hurt_ _people_ , now. She dug the heels of her palms into her eyes and tried to settle down.

She felt gentle, tentative hands at her shoulder and waist; again, careful not to touch her skin. He turned her a little so she could face him. She didn’t ease in his hold, but she didn’t push him away either.

“Gaby, I say this with full respect,” He said, “How much sleep have you gotten the past two days?”

“About five hours, when we got back to the hotel.” She said glumly. “I know what you’re going to say.”

She had been using her Gift almost constantly, through stress and injuries and with hardly any food or drink or rest. She had pushed it to new limits with little regard as to how it would affect her strength. But she’d been stubborn, because she wanted to help, she _had_ to help. It was her responsibility. She tried to pull away from Napoleon but instead of letting go, he let his hands slide across her arms to catch her hands. She felt a shock or two and he must have felt them too, but he didn’t flinch, merely rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles until her Gift seemed to calm.

“And I imagine I didn’t help matters, goading you like I did on the plane. I admire your tenacity, Gabriella.” The way he said her name made her heart jump. Again, there was no mask, no charm. Just sympathy, and kindness. “But there’s pushing yourself, and then there’s beating yourself up over it. That’s more Peril’s style than yours, and frankly it gets nothing done. We’ll have the time to practice, I promise. I’ve been able to survive this long without a Gift, we’ll manage just fine without you overextending yours.”

Something about his kindness disarmed her, just as much as Illya’s did. She bit her lip, and decided to be more honest than vulnerable. 

“I need a drink.” She said.

“You need _sleep_.” Napoleon corrected. He sighed. “But a drink will be easier to have at a restaurant than a nap.”

Dinner had been pleasant enough, once they’d found the restaurant. It was easy for Gaby to funnel her exhaustion into the persona of an irritated, dissatisfied wife. Napoleon made Louis Franklin just the kind of asshole she could easily and repeatedly butt heads with, something that was almost soothing. It was an outlet for all her frustration, and it drew Diamez in like a magnet. They left with the promise of another meeting, and a slip of paper with Diamez’s _personal_ line snuck into her purse. She had drank more than her fair share of the wine that’d been ordered, and leaned on Napoleon heavily for most of the way home. 

Only the most basic propriety motivated her to even bother getting changed once they reached the hotel room. She fumbled through her routine, taking just as long drunk as Napoleon did sober, his nighttime preparations more diligent and fastidious than hers.

Finally she flopped onto the bed. Napoleon hesitated at the other side of it.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take the couch--”

“Steig einfach ein.” She mumbled groggily. 

He got in, careful not to disturb her at all. He kept to the far edge of the bed, and Gaby would roll her eyes if she was awake enough to. He was being such a gentleman. She didn’t get it.

Overall, she used her Gift to (in no particular order): repair Illya’s ring, partly because it must have caused a nasty feedback burst that she felt a little guilty about and partly because she missed him, and being able to talk to him through the ring brought her some comfort, even if he wasn’t listening; make a lamppost burst above herself and Diamez so he wouldn’t look down the alleyway and see the litter of _fucking_ bodies Illya and Napoleon had managed to create; glitch the phone line in Diamez’s house so that he couldn’t call his men and realize Napoleon wasn’t where he was “supposed” to be; start a car because there wasn’t enough time to hotwire it, twice; and indeed, broke Diamez’s gun as he tried to hold her hostage. It was an odd sensation, to send the spark through her head instead of her hands, and it unfortunately caused her to black out for a minute or two, but at least she was alive to black out.

All the while she and Napoleon kept dancing around each other (on one lovely occasion, literally). They would talk, and it would be nice; he was a pleasant conversationalist, she found. Even when there was no conversation, like those late hours of the night where her insomnia kept her working at any device she could find to practice and Napoleon would watch, fascinated and trying to escape his own strange nightmares, it was peaceful. And where Illya was reserved, Napoleon was casual with his touches. Part of it was to maintain their cover, she knew, but he also never crossed a boundary. There was control to it, always giving her time and space to move away if she wanted to. She never did unless Deirdre Franklin was “angry” with Louis. In fact, she’d been the one to kiss him first, a quick peck on the lips before dashing off into a store. She felt like a fool all over again, holding that kiss close, because it meant _nothing_. But she couldn’t let go of the way he had smiled after her, baffled and just barely hiding his amusement. 

It made her feel guilty, after she’d gotten so close to Illya, to get close to Napoleon in turn. Not that he let her get too close; in the privacy of the hotel room he kept professionally distant, though no less genial. In fact, the only time that professional shell cracked was the night after she’d first slept with Diamez, to help maintain their cover. She could see it on the edge of his tongue, and a part of her wanted him to say it, just put it out there, _say something, one of you, goddammit_ , but he didn’t. The mask came back up. And against her will a part of her was _grateful_ for it, because the idea of both of them, Illya and Napoleon, worried and fretting and _caring_ for her, was a bit too much.

It was frustrating, but something she was learning the patience to deal with. They had not known each other long, yet the three of them seemed to be clinging to a freight train speeding off to god knows where. Patience was needed. If there was time to sort out her Gift, there was time to sort this out as well. So Gaby worked hard and let Istanbul come and go, and while it wasn’t peaceful or easy by any means, she thought the mission went well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steig einfach ein. = Just get in.
> 
> \---
> 
> Gaby, watching polyamory rear its head on the horizon: Hm. I think I am just going to practice my Gift instead. 
> 
> Thank y'all for your patience! I hope you're enjoying so far. This story structure is quite different from what I'm used to, but hey, it never hurts to experiment. The next chapter will go up on Monday!


	2. The In-Between: Illya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’ll keep an eye on you, Illya. We’re not going anywhere.” She said, before letting him go. “Rest now, liebe.” 
> 
> The mission really started going downhill after that. Illya woke up with a pounding headache, and a stomach that didn’t want to keep anything down, and a slew of memories he wished he didn’t have.

Istanbul went well until it didn’t. Even then, it wasn’t a total disaster, but then again, Rome was a high bar to beat. That is to say: at least no one got tortured. 

Not for lack of trying.

Illya imagined there were people out in the world suited (no pun intended) to customer service. They liked working with people, making them happy. He was not one of them. He couldn’t argue Waverly’s reasoning for making Napoleon the frontman for dealing with Diamez, but he also couldn’t help thinking that the American with all his fancy suits and fancy words would fit in much better in this place. It didn’t help that absolutely _none_ of his coworkers trusted him or seemed to like him, no matter how friendly he tried to be. Caged in by shifty employees who were disrespectful and cranky, uppity customers who treated him like a goddamn servant was torture enough. As it was, he found himself tapping to the beat of his father’s watch quite a lot. It was likely a good thing, that he had to keep his distance from Solo and Gaby.

Gaby. She had broken the bug in her ring. He’d noticed when Napoleon had started breaking all of the bugs Illya had placed on him, and then the ones he’d snuck into Gaby’s belongings, so soon the ring was the only one left. He listened long enough to hear Napoleon’s new and improved (read: terrible) plan, and then she’d broken it. The static feedback in his ears had been nasty, but he supposed he deserved it. He hadn’t meant to make her upset. He was just worried about her. Sure, she’d been an operative for a couple years already, but on just one mission that involved her own family. Jumping from that to a full cover plus seduction was no small leap. He couldn’t help but warn her, protect her, if only because he doubted Napoleon “Serial Womanizer” Solo would. But it had bitten him in the ass. Or to be more apt, Gaby had bitten his head off. And because this time they were _strictly_ on a no contact basis, he wouldn’t be able to make it up to her. 

He decided to accept the loss and just focus on the mission. Therefore, he didn’t catch it at first. He was focused learning all he could about his new coworkers so he could try and ingratiate himself amongst them. He found the easiest way to keep them off his back was simply to do the best work he could possibly do, measuring customers and locating garments and making notes for adjustment. That he wouldn’t have minded, if the customers weren’t such _assholes_. He came home one evening frazzled enough to just flop on his bed, and that’s when he caught it. He heard a distant, staticky voice.

He pulled out his case from under his bed and opened it. There was the receiver for the bug in Gaby’s ring, active again. He pulled the headphones up to his head to listen.

“...I shouldn’t be doing this.” Her voice crackled across the line. She must have fixed it. He smiled at that; she couldn’t have been too angry at him then. “You’re probably not even listening, since I broke this darn thing. Or are you? Maybe there’s another bug we missed? Illya, if you can hear me, give me a sign. Pass in front of your window or something.”

He thought about it. But...he wondered if that would scare her away. He decided not to.

“..that’s what I thought.” She huffed. “Blöd. I just...hate that this is a no contact mission.”

His heart skipped at that, though he tried to tell himself it was nothing. Did she miss him? It wasn’t like this distance was forever, he had to get over himself.

“...I mean, who else is going to stop you from losing your temper and jabbing some poor ass in the throat?” Gaby scoffed, but her laugh was tinged with sadness. “...this is stupid. No more of this.”

After that, her voice became indistinct, mingling with the rumble that must have been Napoleon. He sighed and dropped the headphones back into his case. He pulled out his chess set and tried to convince himself that he didn’t miss her either. It was a losing game.

The next evening, despite her saying she wouldn’t, he caught her talking into the ring again.

“I hate that your words won’t leave my head!” She hissed. “You and your paranoia.”

There was a pause, before she continued.

“Napoleon’s not as bad as you think he is...and he’s kinder than you think he is. He just doesn’t always know how to show it without being charming.” The soft tone in her voice irked him. “Sort of like you, except instead of hiding it in charm you’re hiding it in...I don’t know. Being bossy? Pah.”

He’d dropped the headphones after that, scoffing. The American wasn’t kind--at least, no more than he had to be to get whatever it was he wanted at any given time. Almost rebelliously his brain dragged up the events of only half a week ago, when Napoleon had saved his life. And when Illya had asked why, Napoleon hadn’t said that it was for the sake of the mission, the obvious answer. 

_Drinking wine alone sometimes just makes you depressed_.

Illya still hadn’t managed to figure out what the hell that meant, but at his best guess...Napoleon was lonely? That he didn’t like being alone? That, at least, was obvious from his profile and his sleeping habits in Rome. But why would it extend to Illya? He could certainly see why it would make the man cling to his “wife”. He tried to tamp down his own jealousy, though he couldn’t resist knocking over a lamp. 

He heard her again the next morning, while he was getting dressed.

“Does everything I have to wear _have_ to match?” She asked, voice tinged with exasperation. “Napoleon keeps insisting on it. Don’t get me wrong, he’s the king of color combo—that isn’t it. What’s that word? Combo—codi—bah, he’s good at color matching, and he’s always stylish, but...what would you say? Surely if it’s pretty it’s ok if it doesn’t match…but you two are the fashionistas, not me.”

She laughed sheepishly, and he smiled. 

“Cowboy is too tacky for “fashionista”.” He said aloud. He would have kept listening in, but he had to get to “work” on time. No matter, he’d decided to start tailing his fellow agents in his off hours. It wasn’t like his coworkers liked him enough to invite him anywhere. Diamez had stopped in once, but hadn’t said anything of interest. So he had to do _something_ in his free time, not to mention the call from Oleg he’d gotten the day before.

_Use this new position to your advantage, Kuryakin. Earn the American’s trust, and send any intel you learn back to Russia. Make up for the disaster of Rome._

Illya bet Napoleon had similar orders from Sanders. It was why he’d been so hesitant to explain his Gift on the plane, but he’d relented when he remembered Napoleon’s admission the day before. The CIA’s top agent admitting he wasn’t Gifted in the presence of his enemy (though they weren’t enemies, anymore, were they?) was quite the gambit. Though, to be fair, he hadn’t reported it. Not to mention their unspoken agreement to cover for each other in relation to the nuclear plans. There was honor in that, honor between them now. He was torn between the fondness he told himself he didn’t feel for Cowboy and the responsibility towards his home country. He hated the exhausting circle Cowboy would drive his thoughts into. 

He followed Gaby and Napoleon to an oceanside cafe (Napoleon had missed the tracker in his belt). They both appeared standoffish towards each other, but he knew that was a part of their cover. Gaby had traded his ring for whatever ring Napoleon had given her: something obnoxious and diamond encrusted and probably stolen. Despite their outward appearance, he saw them talk back and forth through the entire meal. Napoleon reached across the table to take Gaby’s hand; she let him. He was more mature than this, he lied to himself, watching Napoleon running his thumbs over her knuckles and certainly not feeling jealous. Certainly. And yet, he didn’t leave them alone. 

Several times throughout the night he noticed Napoleon lift his fork to his mouth, only to set it down with a grimace. He knew Cowboy would never go anywhere that didn’t serve good food, so it wasn’t that. And the man was unflappable; he highly doubted Gaby had managed to put him off his dinner, especially since they were still holding hands, _which was totally fine_. He also had a new habit of blinking rapidly at times, like trying to blink spots from his vision. That had been happening since Illya rescued him from the clutches of Von Trusch. Illya took note. 

They walked back to their hotel arm in arm, and Illya did his best not to count how many times Gaby smiled or laughed. 

The next night he followed Diamez. He took a seat at the bar of Diamez’s favorite restaurant (it had to be, for UNCLE’s intel to get such a brazen photo of him there) and waited until the man came and went. He was even able to bug the man, brushing by his side as he passed him on the street. It was a risky placement, but Diamez was an arms dealer with any number of enemies, and Illya had used one of Napoleon’s bugs, so no one would make the connection between a KGB-style bug and the Russian employee at the tailor shop, should they find it. 

He tried to tune into it once he got back to his apartment, but accidentally crossed the frequency of Gaby’s ring first. He shouldn’t have lingered, he should have focused, but he heard laughter and music and grew curious.

“You alright, sweetheart?” He heard Napoleon ask in the terrible southern accent he’d adopted for his cover. He sounded slightly out of breath.

“Ja, ja.” Gaby sounded even further out of breath. She was giggly; Illya could immediately tell she wasn’t sober. “I should, I should go clean up.”

“Maybe we should have put more stock in the proverb ‘don’t drink and dance.’” Napoleon said, already sounding distant.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Gaby called over the music. There were a few seconds of just music, before there was the sound of a door opening and closing, and then the music was much quieter. Shuffling, fabric rustling. She must have spilled a drink on herself or something. She kept breaking out into giggles. 

“Napoleon, I’m pleased to report,” She announced suddenly, “can and will dance. So, Mr. GrumpyFace, you have some catching up to do if you want to keep up with us--” She hiccuped, “--me. Jursy—jury’s out on whether or not he can wrestle—but--” another hiccup “--that, that feels like just our thing. He and I dance, you and I wrestle. I like that.”

Illya quickly switched off the channel. He rubbed his cheeks as if that would make the color in them go away. He didn’t want to linger on how that made him feel. That night alone was enough proof of what a pisspoor spy he was. He switched the receiver back on and turned the channel to Diamez’s bug. From what he heard, the man didn’t have any potential clients at the moment, other than Louis Franklin; if anything, business seemed to be slow, which would make him all the more eager to sell. 

The next day, Diamez brought Louis Franklin and his lovely wife to his favorite tailor; apparently Louis’s jacket had snagged on a fence and torn rather terribly, and who was Diamez to not help his new friend out? Illya had to admit, it was a clever way to reach out on a no contact mission. At least, it would have been, if Gaby hadn’t immediately started scanning the store for him. She took in each man that worked there, to be fair, but she stopped as soon as she laid eyes on him. Diamez hadn’t taken much of a liking to the new hire yet, so Illya could keep his distance. Still, he felt her gaze boring into his back. Eventually Napoleon found an excuse to beckon Illya over and boss him around a little. Illya tried to keep his temper in check, but Cowboy seemed to revel in--like every other fucking high-class customer--treating him like a servant. The absolute classism of it all made him miss Russia. 

“Julien,” Gaby said airily, leaning into as much of a British accent as she could, “You surround yourself with such... _pleasant_ company.”

Her gaze found Illya’s and locked on. He tried to look dismissive, but he wasn’t sure it worked. She was putting everything at risk, just by _looking_ at him! 

“Maybe not so much pleasant as _abiding_ ,” Julien corrected smoothly, leaning in close to her. She chewed at the lens of her sunglasses, letting it tug at her lower lip, head tilting as if to hear a secret. “I find pleasure in more private company.”

“I agree.” Napoleon chimed in, moving across the room and holding his jacket, which had been quickly and expertly mended. He laid a possessive hand on Gaby’s arm. “You have truly found the diamonds in the rough of this place.”

“Yes, yes I think I have.” Diamez said, not looking away from Gaby for a second.

He watched the trio until they left. It didn’t occur to Illya until after the door swung shut that Gaby had been playing coy in order to entice Diamez further. It was still a reckless play, to bring him into it!

“Little Ivan has a crush, I think.” Ersoz, one of the employees, interrupted his thoughts. The squat man was cleaning up the workstation, and his eyes glittered with malice. Illya tried not to roll his eyes; his cover’s name was Dimitri, not Ivan, but “Little Ivan” had become his nickname in the shop. 

“I cannot deny beauty when I see it.” He allowed quietly. 

“Probably was hard to come by, in the motherland, hah?” Ersoz chuckled. Illya felt his temper begin to rise. He was holding a bolt of fabric and began tapping it. “You have to share your women along with everything else over there, don’t you!”

Illya shoved the bolt back into the shelf so hard the entire structure shook. He felt the ringing in his ears and clenched his fists tight. He fought to keep his Gift contained. Still, he turned on his heel and stalked over to Ersoz, using all of his height to tower as threateningly as he could. The only indication Ersoz was fazed at all was the bead of sweat that started to form at his temple. He sneered up at Illya, and he realized that coming to the defense of his homeland wasn’t very “defector” of him. His mouth twisted.

“Do not make light of the problems of Russia.” He said. “It is not comedy, it is tragedy.” 

He stormed off, and Ersoz called after him: “They say time and tragedy equals comedy, no?”

He slammed the door to the backroom shut behind him. He shoved his hands into his pockets to stop his violence, and that’s when he found the slip of paper that hadn’t been there before. He pulled it out and unfolded it. Huh. Solo had taken the time to write out his message in transliterated Cyrillic, likely so it’d be harder for anyone else to read.

_Tomorrow, seven. Warehouse by the pier._

_P.S. Jealousy has a bit of a stench. Learn to be more subtle, Peril._

Illya scoffed and tore the message to pieces. At least they were making quick progress, for all Cowboy had been supposed to _wait_ for at least a day or two, taking longer to befriend Diamez, so no one would notice the coincidence of his and Illya’s joint appearance. All he had to do was sneak to the warehouse and get enough evidence of Napoleon and Diamez’s deal, and then they could call in UNCLE to help with the rest.

That night he tuned in to the frequency of Diamez’s bug. He heard the sound of car doors opening and closing, then Diamez ordering the driver to head to the very hotel Gaby and Napoleon were staying at. He frowned and switched to Gaby’s frequency. 

“He should be here any minute.” Solo said, voice sounding distant. Ah, so they were meeting with Diamez for dinner. Good. Two birds, one stone. Let Cowboy try to catch him this time (he refused to admit he’d gotten sloppy, only that Solo had gotten lucky).

“Don’t worry, I’m almost ready.” Gaby called back. He heard her sigh, and the clatter of something in a sink, and then a German curse. She was in the bathroom, then. 

“He likes gold. How stupid is that?” She muttered. “I will deck myself like buried treasure, then, if that’s what’ll get him after me.”

She huffed, and then there was silence for a moment, before: 

“I saw you at the shop. I know you know that I saw you. You probably won’t agree with me, and I know it’s very cliche, but you look good in red.”

Illya was wearing a pinstripe suit over a silk red button down shirt with a darker red tie, embossed with silver. It was far too extravagant for his tastes, but necessary to fit in with a high-end tailor’s shop. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. He knew he looked good, but to hear it from Gaby was another thing entirely. She didn’t say anything more though. Illya quickly changed into a more subdued outfit and left the apartment. 

It was a different restaurant, a smaller one, tucked into one of the quieter parts of the city not too far from where they were all staying. Likely a similar “diamond in the rough”, to use Cowboy’s earlier phrase. Illya didn’t want to get too close; there was patio seating, so Illya took an empty table for himself when the hostess wasn’t looking. From there he could look inside the front windows of the place and found his companions easily. Gaby had her back to him, and she was sitting ever so slightly closer to Diamez than her “husband”, though the two were engaged in conversation. Not engaged enough, Illya noticed again, for Napoleon not to have issues with his food. After some time Illya watched Napoleon excuse himself and head towards the back of the building, to a bathroom, most likely. Illya frowned. If Cowboy was ill, _properly_ ill, that was bad for the mission. Illya stood up from the table and ducked into the alley to see if he could find a rear entrance to the restaurant. He found the door he was looking for, but right as he grabbed the handle, he felt something stab into his neck. 

He quickly grabbed at it and pulled it out of his neck--a _needle_ , _Блядь_ \--and whirled. Five men had materialized in the alley, dressed more for a fight than a night out. Illya didn’t have much time to wonder how his cover got blown or to curse his luck, because he was suddenly swarmed.

Whatever they had stuck him with, it appeared to be slow-acting. The world faded away as Illya decided to use these men to vent out all his frustration from the past couple of days. He was able to take most of them down. That was, until the last of them managed to get a solid right hook to his jaw, and when he spun with the hit so did the rest of the world. He stumbled to the ground, and heard a door open and shut. He heard the sound of fighting, grunts of pain, and then silence.

“You need to stop counting on me to pull you out of scrapes like this, Peril.” Solo chided, reaching a hand down to Illya. Illya blinked at it dumbly. First off, it wasn’t what he expected Cowboy to do. Second off, Illya could see three different hands and couldn’t quite figure out which one was the real one. 

He made his best guess, but his own arm felt a bit like lead: he lifted his arm up to what he hoped was the real hand, it phased right through it, and then his arm flopped back to the ground. The rest of him could have easily flopped over as well, but he tried to hold steady.

“Peril?” Solo frowned, arrogance abandoned for actual concern. 

Illya looked around at the sprawl of bodies the two of them had dispatched--well, mostly Illya had dispatched them, Napoleon had really only taken care of the last one when the drugs really started to kick in proper--drugs, that’s right, he was _drugged_ \--he remembered what he was looking for and pointed when he found it.

“That one stuck me with a syringe, I’ve been drugged.” Is what he wanted to say.

“Fat man has needle.” Is what came out. This was not going well.

Napoleon left him for a moment, going over to the man in question and finding the broken syringe not far away. He picked it up and examined it as much as he could in the dim light of the alley.

“Any idea what he stuck you with?”

If Illya had to guess, it was likely a sedative of some kind. Those men were trying to subdue him by any means necessary. But somewhere between his brain and his mouth that guess got fumbled.

“Drugs.” Illya said. 

Solo looked incredibly put-upon. 

“How helpful, Illya.” He said. 

“пожалуйста.” Illya nodded. Napoleon rolled his eyes. He pocketed the syringe and began rifling through the man’s pockets.

Illya heard voices at the far end of the alley. He couldn’t exactly hear the words, but he recognized one of them was Gaby. The other must have been Diamez. He blinked. It was hard to see the end of the alley. He thought he saw Gaby looking at him--and the rest of the mess. He tried to smile and wave, because that felt like the nice thing to do. 

“He can’t see this. Stay quiet.” Napoleon hissed. Illya felt a hand clap around his mouth and his years of KGB training kicked in automatically. He grabbed the hand over his mouth and the shoulder it was attached to and flipped Napoleon over into the dirt. A split second later there was some kind of pop and flash at the end of the alley, disorienting Illya enough that Solo could wriggle free. Illya had to spend more time than he would have liked blinking his vision clear, and when he finally did his eyes focused on a nice pair of black Dior pumps. 

“What the hell was that, boys?” Gaby hissed. “I had to burst the lamppost to keep Diamez from seeing the mess you’ve made.”

“ _Drugs_.” Illya told her emphatically. She looked confused.

“No, no I’m fine.” She said. He shook his head.

“Drugs.” He mimed the syringe as he reached for her and she stepped back.

“Uh, no, no thank you--what--what’s gotten into him?”

“I think his cover got blown. They tried to abduct him.” Solo said.

“Stupid plan.” Illya nodded in agreement. He swung his head back up to look at Gaby, and he tried to ease her scowl with his smile. “It failed.”

“ _Barely_.” Napoleon grumbled. “They tried to drug him, but I imagine they underestimated their dosage. I’m fairly certain the only thing that’ll take the Red Peril out is horse tranquilizers. So now we’re stuck with this.”

“Scheiße. We’ve got to get him out of here.” Gaby went for his right side, as Napoleon went for his left. Both tried to pick up his arms, but only Solo succeeded. Gaby heaved and heaved, to no avail. Illya watched her, fascinated by her concentration. She was always quite lovely when she worked.

“Gaby--”

“He’s heavy, it’s like a hundred pounds!” Gaby grunted. Napoleon frowned.

“I’ve got him just fine.”

Gaby looked to Illya, then jerked back a little when she realized how close their faces were--especially because he didn’t move. She blinked, then recovered.

“Illya, are you using your Gift?”

“No.” Illya shook his head. Then he paused and listened. There was a dull ringing in his ears, but it was very distant, like a bell in another room. “Yes? Eh?”

He glared down at his right arm, which did feel heavier than normal. His Gift must be going haywire, the drug attacking his system like this. It was just like when he was drunk, back when he was young and stupid enough to get drunk. He shook his arm, trying to tug his Gift away. It didn’t quite work as intended, but his arm felt a little more normal. He swung it out to Gaby, who had to dodge it, and smiled.

“Fixed.” He said happily, proud that he’d managed that.

“ _Christ_. You never make things easy, Peril.” Solo grunted as between him and Gaby, they levered Illya to his feet. For what it was worth, Illya tried to help. It probably didn’t amount to much.

“Wait.” Napoleon said, stopping them all before they could take a step. “Illya, can you stand for a minute?”

“Конечно.” Illya said, and miraculously managed to keep himself mostly steady, doing his damndest not to put all his weight on poor Gaby. Of course, in the blink of an eye she became the only thing holding him down to Earth. Oops.

“What are you doing?” She snapped. Napoleon was again rummaging about the bodies. Like a thieving bird, Solo was, Illya thought. The spy picked up a small trilby hat off of one of the men, darted back to the two of them, and plopped it on Illya’s head, terribly askew. Then he dashed off again. Illya frowned.

“This not my hat.” He protested weakly. “That, my hat is--where--”

“It’s over here Peril, I have it.” Napoleon said, coming back with Illya’s hat in hand. He put it over his own head, also knocking it askew. He took off his own jacket and threw it over Gaby’s shoulders. He swiped her sunglasses from her handbag and forced them haphazardly onto her face.

“Solo what the hell--”

“We need to look different. We need to look unassuming. It’s the only way we’ll get out of this together. I’m not going to touch you, but uh, drop your sleeve a bit, perhaps?” Napoleon suggested as Gaby glared murder. “Look as drunk as you can.”

He himself had already loosened his collar, and before Illya knew it Solo was wresting off Illya’s jacket and putting it on.

“My jacket.” He whined.

“I’ll give it back, don’t worry.” Napoleon huffed. He darted about the two of them, making quick adjustments to their outfits and his own. It probably went faster than Illya thought it did. He really hated how drugs like this messed with his sense of time. For example, with just that thought the scene skipped from Napoleon unbuttoning Illya’s collar (which oddly made his heart jump), to them all stumbling out of the alleyway together, all without his sayso, which was really quite irritating.

“Laugh.” Napoleon commanded.

They laughed. Illya found it was easy to laugh. This whole situation was ridiculous, hell, why hadn’t he been laughing before? They were going to get caught acting like drunken fools, and what a hell of a way to go that was!

“We’re all going to die.” He said dramatically, laughing. A small part of him that was mostly smothered by the sedative cried out at his lack of restraint, at his immaturity and unprofessionalism. “We’re going--we’re are--” He couldn’t remember the english word for gun, but managed anyways around guffaws, “shooty thing--brain-- _boof_.”

“He’s not wrong.” Gaby gritted through her smile. All three of them were stumbling under Illya’s weight, especially with how it kept fluctuating, but her most of all in her heels.

“Only if he doesn’t _tone it down, Illya_.” Napoleon replied pointedly, also through his lopsided grin. People on the sidewalk were giving them a wide berth, yes, but also staring.

“Tone?” Illya echoed with (only partly) mock offense. “I can--I can _tone_...tone, tone,” The word bounced along his tongue and he tried to keep the rhythm going, “tone-ton-tun-tun-tun-tun-tatun-tun-tatun.” 

“Now he’s singing.” Gaby said.

“Just roll with it.” 

“You two worry too much.” Illya giggled between them. They both looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. Hm, that was a little hypocritical of himself to say, wasn’t it? But he was supposed to be the paranoid one of the bunch, not them. “I will, I will, what is word? Shield? No…”

“Protect?” Gaby offered. 

“Да! Protect you! I will fight! I will die first before--”

“Please, please! You are too honorable, my friend.” Napoleon said, both calming him down and playing along. “The lady can fend for herself!”

“She can.” Illya agreed. “You can’t.”

“I take offense to that!” Napoleon cried. Illya grinned, because of course he did. His head suddenly felt too heavy for his neck, and he found resting it on Napoleon’s shoulder the easiest option. The back of the man’s neck was surprisingly soft.

“Перья, пуховые перья…” He hummed, because that’s what it felt like. Suddenly Solo jerked away from him. 

“ _Solo_!” Gaby growled, suddenly finding herself holding up most of Illya’s weight.

Napoleon looked scared--or confused? Horrified? Illya couldn’t really tell, because whatever mask the spy had dropped came back up quickly. 

“Illya.” He said sternly.

“Naplin.” Illya returned, name slurring in his mouth. Napoleon sighed and took his other arm again, though stiffly, now. 

“Please _try_ to keep a clear head.” 

“Да.” Illya nodded, trying to put his energy into walking straight and keeping his head on his shoulders. He found himself starting to laugh again. This was all too crazy. He wanted to go home. 

“Solo, you’re not acting like a drunk man.” Gaby reached over and poked the American. 

Immediately Cowboy relaxed, movements becoming looser and unsteady. Napoleon leaned in to be closer to Gaby, giving Illya a faceful of his cologne. 

“This better, sweetheart?” He said, voice slurring a tad. “You could be a little more cheerful yourself, fraulein.”

Gaby giggled as if he’d just paid her a compliment, but challenge was clear in her eyes. Illya suddenly didn’t like this, being in between the two of them. When he and Napoleon were competitive it was one thing. Gaby and Napoleon being competitive felt like a very different thing, that he couldn’t find the words in his foggy head to explain. But he’d seen it on the plane, and it’d made him uncomfortable then too.

“You want to know what happens when I’m actually drunk, Solo?” Gaby said. Illya remembered very clearly what happened when Gaby was actually drunk, and he certainly didn’t want it happening in a public place.

“No no.” Illya mumbled, but there was already a devilish look in Cowboy’s eyes.

“Don’t make it sound so tempting, darling.”

“You’re not one for resisting temptation, are you?”

“Плохая идея.” Illya tried, to no avail.

“Coming from you, Gaby? Never.”

Well, okay, that _definitely_ didn’t sit right with Illya. 

“Stupid, stupid plan. Cut it out.” He managed. He shoved himself forward between them, but that action unbalanced all three of them and it was a miracle they didn’t collapse on top of one another to the ground.

“ _Dur_!” A cop was walking down the street, as they were still stumbling over their own feet. He blocked their path, he was raising a hand up for them to stop.

“Dur.” Illya echoed. That also had a nice rhythm on his tongue. “Dur dur, dur dur dur, dur--”

“Hush, you silly man!” Gaby laughed, slapping his chest both in jest and warning.

“Sorry, officer, is there--” Napoleon hiccuped. “--is there a problem. Shit, Turkish. Sorry. Uh, Allo? Allo!”

“I speak English.” The cop said with a heavy accent. “What is your business?”

“Business, no business.” Illya shook his head. “Pleasure.”

“Big man’s getting married!” Napoleon cried, then laughed. “Got a bit carried away celebrating, I’m afraid.”

“I got called in to check out a disturbance.” The cop told them, eyeing them not with suspicion, but certainly not like they were innocent either. They weren’t out of the woods yet. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Nicky, you told me those workers down the bar broke those glasses!” Gaby gasped.

“No no, Rita, don’t--don’t worry about it, I paid for it.” Napoleon answered. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, right officer?”

“Disturbance?” Illya said. “Disturbi--no disturb. Celb--cele--” The word slipped out of his mind like a fish in oiled hands “--celibate--”

“ _Celebrating_.” Napoleon quickly corrected.

“He is getting married?” The officer pointed to Illya. Right, he had to sell this. Why did Napoleon seize on _marriage_?

“I am lucky man.” Illya said, trying to twist his disoriented state to come across as awestruck. “Good friends, good drinks, good love. So lucky. Да, she is beaufitul. Most beauyfil in all the land--all the EARTH!” He finished off with a shout, making everyone start a little. Unbidden, images of Gaby popped into his head. Gaby laughing, watching a penny float above her hand. Gaby murmuring into her ring, telling him he looked good in red. Gaby dancing around the room, trying to get him to dance with her. Gaby pinning him to the ground. “She is so strong. Good--good z---zhe--женщина strong. Her hands. Her hands are a gift. She can fix anything.”

He felt Gaby stiffen beside him.

“So strong.” He insisted, looking at her. She elbowed his lower back and he turned back to the officer. “So strong.”

The officer was staring at him as if he didn't know whether he was a nuisance to be ignored or a nuisance to be dealt with. He certainly wasn’t amused. 

“I imagine she has to be, to deal with your sorry ass.” He said. “A Soviet like you can’t handle anything else, you will break her in half.”

Now both of his companions stiffened, and he felt their grip tighten on him. That was fair, rage did seep at the back of his mind, but like a hot spring instead of a tidal wave. Certainly not overwhelming, he was too drugged to lose his temper. Which he would have. He would have knocked the officer flat on his ass if he could. But instead of the anger sharpening his actions he let it sharpen his tongue.

“You are lucky Turkish women come strong then. Otherwise how would she deal with your lard ass?” 

Napoleon and Gaby were both so tense beside him, as he stared the officer down with a sloppy grin. For a moment, the cop looked ready to arrest him for any charge he could cook up. But Illya’s cheer had kept his words too light to do any real damage, and the cop chuckled, before laughing fully.

“You are really lucky they are, Soviet!” He said. “Best in all the land. You will not know what hit you.”

Napoleon and Gaby relaxed slightly and laughed along. 

“You will get him home, evet?” The cop asked them. 

“To his poor beleaguered lady, of course.” Napoleon nodded eagerly. 

“We’ll get him a car.” Gaby chimed in, giggling.

“Ooh, a long black car.”

“A limousine!” Gaby gasped, and the two fell into a fit of giggles. The cop shook his head with amusement.

“You three get home safe. Do not cause trouble.” He waved them along and moved on, down towards the alley and the mess of bodies that he now believed they were too drunk to have caused.

“Aye aye, captain!” Napoleon saluted, and just like that they were clear. Illya sighed and let his weight sag a little.

“You cut it a little close there, Peril.” Solo muttered to him.

“Your charm isn’t charm that always works, Cowboy.” Illya shot back. He took in more of their surroundings, now that they didn’t have to worry about fooling a cop. They were closer to his apartment building than he realized. He didn’t feel too bad about relaxing just a bit, especially because his body was finally starting to lose its fight against the sedatives coursing through his veins. He let his foggy brain settle in on the warm arms against his back, and his arms along their shoulders. He let his arms slide down, fabric against fabric. He trusted them to hold him up. Huh. He trusted them. God he was so tired. Of the paranoia, the distrust, the jealousy. And they were so nice. 

He did something he’d never do in a million years sober and Napoleon honest to God _chirped_ in alarm. He didn’t stop or pull away this time, but his words came out through gritted teeth.

“If you intended to do what you just did Illya, I think you meant to grab _Gaby’s_ ass, not mine.” 

Illya giggled. _Wrong, bad, stupid!_ The last rational part of his mind screamed. Gaby was staring at him. He didn’t care. This would all go away tomorrow anyways. The shame would return, and he’d act like he didn’t remember, and they would move on.

“Yours is closer, Cowboy.” He mumbled. His hand stayed obediently at Napoleon’s waist, however, and he leaned his head on top of Gaby’s. Her hair smelled nice.

“You know, this was fun, but I think I’m happy never seeing you like this again, Peril.” Solo said, voice stiff and forcefully neutral.

“I don’t know, I think it’s entertaining.” Gaby offered, which surprised Illya. Then again, she didn’t tend to be jealous like he was. Why would she be jealous of Napoleon? If he’d squeezed her behind he probably would have gotten slapped. He thought of all the moments they’ve had, the near kisses, the near misses, and reconsidered. Would she mind? He was confused now. 

And also being led into his tiny apartment. God, the endless march of time!

In the privacy of his room, he tried to move away from the others and walk on his own--a futile endeavor. Still, he knocked the stupid stolen hat off and snatched his usual cap back from Napoleon before the American could get too far away.

“My hat.” He set it back on his head, only to have Gaby immediately take it off and hang it up.

“You need to sleep this off, big guy.” She said. 

“If he’s left the window open, there’s probably bugs.” Napoleon said, which really meant, _If he’s been had, there could be bugs. I’ll check._ Solo took off Illya’s jacket and hung it up by his hat. 

Gaby managed to get him to his bed, though she shoved him over into it rather rudely. He didn’t have the energy to do anything other than flop back, and the ridiculousness of the situation made him laugh again. Being horizontal seemed like the nail in the coffin: his body started giving up on consciousness completely. He felt Gaby pushing him back down into the bed. Once. Twice.

“Stop floating.”

“Oops.” He was still smiling like a big idiot, but he couldn’t help it. He managed to settle after a minute or two. He let his eyes close, content to listen to the sounds of Gaby flitting about him and Napoleon in the next room. He trusted them. How odd.

He felt a hand in his adjusting his arm, and then Gaby began to move away. His grip tightened, even as sleep beckoned. Gaby sighed.

“You have to let me go, Illya.” She said, not unkindly.

“You didn’t.” He mumbled. Their destroyed hotel room in Rome seemed so far away now. Did she even remember, catching his hand as he put her to bed? She’d been so drunk.

“ _You_ did.” She said quietly. She did remember. He sighed sadly and loosened his grip, but instead of pulling away she squeezed his hand in return. 

“We’ll keep an eye on you, Illya. We’re not going anywhere.” She said, before letting him go. “Rest now, liebe.” 

The mission really started going downhill after that. Illya woke up with a pounding headache, and a stomach that didn’t want to keep anything down, and a slew of memories he wished he didn’t have. Solo had left a radio with him and a note to call in; if he’d been made he couldn’t leave his apartment easily and there was no point to zero-contact as long as it was subtle on Napoleon’s end. 

“Do they suspect you?” Illya said, getting straight to the point.

“Good morning to you too. I suggest tomato juice with worcestershire sauce, tabasco, a healthy dash of salt and pepper, and one incredibly raw egg for the incredibly painful hangover I’m certain you have, Peril.” Solo answered smugly. Illya grumbled, not keen on having the American tease him right now. 

“I am not hungover.” His head pounded and he was terribly nauseous and too stubborn to say there wasn’t a difference. “Do they suspect you?”

“Did you even get my message at all?” Solo returned coolly. “They would have no reason to suspect us if you had _backed off_.”

“I was tailing Diamez, which was my _mission_.” Illya snapped, fingers tapping.

“But your extra little sojourns on the side certainly didn’t help.” 

“Нет, what didn’t help was you moving too soon. No surprise someone noticed we showed up at the same time, you prancing like a--a--ph--ple-- _павлин_ \--”

“You’re the best the KGB has to offer and you can’t be flexible enough--”

“ _Enough_.” Gaby’s voice crackled over the line, sharp and loud enough that Illya winced. “You two are _children!_ ”

He heard scrabbling, and then Gaby’s voice was much clearer.

“We went public too early, and you shouldn’t have tailed us. Good? Good. And now there’s a new plan. We’re twisting this to our advantage. You were the agent of some rival company sent to cause trouble, and now you are taken care of. Dierdre is going to Diamez’s tonight instead of Louis to--to _reinforce_ this, while Solo tries to get evidence we can use since it’s no longer safe for you to be out in the open trying to take photographs of secret meetings.”

Illya caught the hesitance in her words and bristled.

“ _What_? No, I am fine, I will follow--”

“You will _stay put_.” Gaby snapped. “Diamez’s people haven’t figured out where you’re staying yet, you need to stay underground so they don’t, and underground is where you will stay unless there is an emergency, _understood_?”

Illya had never heard such a commanding tone in her voice before. She came close, back in Rome, when she bit their heads off for fighting then, but nothing like this. Like _she_ was taking control of the mission herself. He had half a mind to fight her, but he had to admit the new plan was sound. Gaby clicked the radio off before he could reply anyways.

He fidgeted for a moment, fingers still tapping against his thigh. With a frustrated growl he dropped the radio on the bed and went for his receiver. He sat down on the floor, back against his bed, and pulled his headphones on. He heard voices, too distant to be clear, but he could tell Gaby’s from Napoleon’s, still loud and angry as it was. Finally there was a door opening and slamming shut.

“Männer. Verdammte Männer.” She hissed. “Ich spiele _wieder_ Mutter.”

Illya frowned. He hadn’t meant to lose his temper, and he wondered if Napoleon hadn’t meant to either. They had both been overconfident and only willing to accuse each other. They were more alike than they’d ever care to admit. He heard the sound of the shower, and he pulled the headset off. He leaned back, arms stretched along his bent knees; sitting had set his head spinning, and he didn’t want to stand and set it spinning again. He hated to admit it, but it wasn’t like he was in much condition to follow them even if he wanted to. The drugs had sent his Gift haywire against his will, which in turn stretched him thin. He didn’t go back to sleep, but he rested there against his bed, until he heard Gaby’s voice through his headphones. He pulled them on again. The sound of the shower was gone.

“...said I could either go with him and have wine or something in a chic hotel in West Berlin, or I could spend the night with the Russians, hanging from a pipe and having my toenails removed.” She was saying quietly. “I know he was partly saying that to scare me into going with him...but what _were_ you going to do if you got to me first?”

Illya’s gut clenched.

“Now that I know you I can’t believe you’d do that—to me, at least. But then again, everyone I knew who was public with their Gift vanished and the rumors…” She sounded so nervous, haunted by the memory. She exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I really want to hear the truth. I’m glad you can’t hear this.”

Illya was not responsible for the USSR’s “recruitment” program in any of its territories, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel guilty for it, for the fear it seemed to bring people. It was Russia’s attempt to place people where they thought would best fit their talents. He was fairly certain they didn’t just abduct people in the night, but the program did tend to move...quickly. It wasn’t perfect. Just like the Stressing wasn’t perfect. Just like Russia wasn’t perfect. 

Oleg’s main directive for Illya in East Berlin was to simply keep Solo away from Gaby, by whatever means necessary. He had no intention to harm her (not directly), of course. He would not be able to speak for his superiors, who did seem avidly interested in the intel Gaby had--but certainly not to the point of brutality that Napoleon had implied. Though it likely wouldn’t have been as pleasant as wine in a chic hotel, either.

He didn’t hear anything more from the bug from the rest of the day. He stayed in his apartment. He usually didn’t let fellow agents boss him around, but usually they also weren’t Gaby. He was too paranoid to sleep off the rest of the drugs, so he played chess, trying to wrestle with his thoughts and memories. He could have reported to Oleg, but...he didn’t want to. Not to mention Waverly _had_ warned him against it, at the top of this mission. Illya, loyal agent that he was, hadn’t spared it a second thought until now. If he wanted to play ball with UNCLE, he had to follow _UNCLE’s_ rules, not Russia’s, in the interest of keeping peace between every country that had a finger in the proverbial pie. So, that was his excuse for not reporting in. Being drugged was his excuse for his actions the night before. He had a hard time finding excuses for everything else, like what the drugs had brought forward. His feelings for Gaby. His... _feelings_ (blech) for Solo. He lost to himself black-to-white enough times that he started getting tired of trying to find excuses. Why fight when you can just accept and move on?

In the late afternoon Napoleon reported to him on what he managed to find. It was wasn’t much, Diamez hid his tracks well. They’d have to reconfigure the deal, and they could discuss that once Gaby returned. He kept playing chess. 

He was just about to win late that night when he heard faint voices from the receiver (which he’d kept close, just in case). He pulled the headphones on. He could hardly make out anything, they were speaking too softly, and through the bathroom door. By now he’d figured out Gaby was keeping the ring with her makeup supplies. Finally the door clicked open and shut. There was shuffling, then the faucet running. After a minute, he heard a sigh.

“Illya, I hope to God you’re not worrying about me too.” She said harshly. “I wouldn’t have taken this mission if I wasn’t okay with it. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t had sex before. Or bad sex. Or sex with bad men. First time I’m getting paid for it, but arguably that’s a perk. Just…” Her voice softened. Again, there was that nervous note to it, like before, “Napoleon’s already worried enough about me. He goes about it better than you do...but he’s just as soft. And I really don’t know if I could handle the two of you being like that about me. I’ve never had anyone be like that about me before. I...ich brauche was zu trinken.”

Instead he heard the shower turn on. He pulled the headset off, he got to his feet and walked away, rubbing his face. She’d sounded so vulnerable, but not about sleeping with Diamez, about him and Napoleon. It made his heart twist, in a way he couldn’t explain. For a moment, jealousy took over: Solo could leave her damn well alone, if this was making her uncomfortable. But that didn’t sit right either, not anymore.

“Pah.” He huffed frustratedly, deciding to deal with it later.

The new arms deal was set for the following day. The idea was for Napoleon to pull off the deal while Gaby recorded the transaction, and of course, Illya would be damned if he didn’t follow. And it was a damn good thing he did, because _of course_ the plan went up in fucking flames. They could at least count themselves lucky that Diamez had never figured out their covers--save for Illya’s, but even then not the whole truth--he simply was an asshole of a man who thought it was a good idea to hold a man’s wife hostage to _extort_ him. And lucky that Gaby had decided to wear her ring (“ _Glücksbringer_.” She’d whispered that morning). Once they’d gotten the hell out of Istanbul, they contacted their UNCLE liaison within the police department (who sounded suspiciously like the cop they’d run into the other night, but Illya couldn’t be sure), handed over their intel to the liaison in Silviri, and that was that. 

Not a clean mission by a long shot. Incredibly frustrating to boot. But, it could have gone worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (there are a lot this chapter, sorry lmao):
> 
> Blöd = Stupid
> 
> Блядь = Damn
> 
> пожалуйста = You're welcome
> 
> Конечно = Sure
> 
> Перья, пуховые перья = ??? ;)
> 
> Плохая идея = Bad idea
> 
> Dur = Stop
> 
> Evet = Yes
> 
> женщина = woman
> 
> Liebe = love
> 
> павлин = peacock 
> 
> Männer. Verdammte Männer. Ich spiele wieder Mutter. = Men. Fucking men. I'm playing mother *again*. 
> 
> ich brauche was zu trinken = I need a drink.
> 
> Glücksbringer = Lucky charm
> 
> \--
> 
> I can wholeheartedly point to the drug scene as the reason this fic got expanded, but I just could not resist the shenanigans of it all. And also if we're gonna have Illya be repressed about his feelings I'd rather it be because he thinks it's a bad idea to get close to other spies, not because he necessarily thinks those feelings are wrong (though that might be more period-typical), so he jumps that hurdle quickly. We love chess as a coping mechanism!
> 
> Last chapter will go up on Wednesday! We'll see what Napoleon's been up to...


	3. The Conclusion: Napoleon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was perfectly capable of making her own choices after all, and Napoleon, for all he was growing terribly, terribly fond of her, more fond than he’d like to admit or was probably wise, he had no plans to get any closer than the mission required.
> 
> At the very least, not until he sorted his own issues out. 

Istanbul went terribly. It was messy, it was confusing, it was not at all up to Napoleon’s standard of work. He wouldn’t deign to say it was as bad as Rome, but goddamn it came pretty close. 

Partly because he felt like he was going insane. 

He’d first been able to dismiss it as a passing trick of the light, the way his eyes glinted in the mirror as he swept through his hotel room on the way out. However, by the time they were on the plane he’d decided he’d just avoid mirrors altogether for the time being. He kept seeing something _other_ , something _off_ , in them. When excusing it as a trick of the light no longer worked, he decided it was simply fatigue. The last time he’d slept was when he’d been drugged for several hours, and then his brief nap after everything that had followed the drugging. Certainly not enough to recover from everything he’d been through, Señorita Flores’s amazing work be damned. 

He tried to focus on the mission and his new found partners. This arrangement being sprung on him was like dumping a bucket of ice water on his head, and yet he still hadn’t decided if he was amenable to the situation or not. Gaby had seemed excited. She tried to get them to be all buddy buddy with each other on the plane, and that had gone well enough until she’d turned her attention to him. He wasn’t ashamed of his lack of Gift, far from it, but it was still irritating to deal with the judgement from anyone who was. At least Waverly had saved him from that.

“Solo, can I have a word?”

Napoleon smiled at his teammates and headed towards the front of the plane. Waverly had just left the pilot’s cabin. He gestured to another set of seats around a table, and Napoleon sat opposite to him. 

“Nothing serious, just clarifying some rules for this arrangement--I’ve already had this talk with Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly explained, “reminding you that while you are with UNCLE, you are not a CIA spy, and he is not a KGB operative--you are both UNCLE agents, and therefore you are under UNCLE jurisdiction and command only. So no double dipping, so to speak.”

Napoleon nodded, taking the information in. That was no surprise; how could this fledgling organization expect to survive if its agents were all constantly trying to spy on each other for their own countries? Sanders was already breathing down his neck to make up for the “disaster” of Rome. Kuryakin was likely under the same pressure, so it couldn’t hurt for Waverly to reinforce the idea of unity. At least they were already halfway there themselves, what with their agreement: the KGB thought Napoleon destroyed the disc; the CIA thought Illya did, and it was one spy’s word against another’s, so neither would become a target. Even so, Sanders was furious, and had already been making threats about Napoleon’s sentence. 

“I understand the sentiment, but I hope you’re aware of my...extenuating circumstances. And the leverage it brings.” He said. 

“Yes, of course.” Waverly nodded with a satisfied smile. “That is why, for the duration of your time with us, your sentence, its conditions and all the bells and whistles have been transferred to UNCLE.”

Napoleon blinked with surprise.

“Do you mind my asking how the hell you managed to pull that off?”

“Oh, simple really. I told your people that they could either have their best agent transferred entirely to UNCLE, or not have any American agents in UNCLE at all.” Waverly said.

“I’m not inclined to believe Sanders would ever put stock in an international agency when he believes the CIA can do and does everything better.” Napoleon returned.

“Well, that was proven wrong just this week, wasn’t it?” Waverly tilted his head. “Since it took a CIA agent, a KGB operative, and a German-cum-British Intelligence spy to dismantle the carefully laid plans of the Vinciguerras.” 

“Point taken.” Napoleon said.

“So, you will not follow any orders other than those disseminated through the UNCLE chain of command--meaning me, mostly. No matter how your home agencies may try to convince you to do so. In the interest of international equality. Understood?”

“Understood.” 

The men nodded to each other, and Napoleon took that as permission to leave. He rose from his seat, but didn’t get far.

“Oh, Solo?”

“Yes?” Napoleon turned back to the British agent.

“You are doing alright, yes?” Waverly squinted up at him, and like at the Vinciguerra’s party Napoleon had the distinct feeling the man was more perceptive than he let on. “You seem a bit under the weather.”

Napoleon gave him a reassuring smile.

“Just...looking forward to a full night’s rest.” 

“Of course, of course, I imagine so, after your ordeal and all.” Waverly nodded, satisfied with the answer. Solo nodded and turned back to his seat. To his surprise, Gaby had returned to her original spot, and both her and Peril were sulking. He’d turned his back for one minute and they were stepping on each other’s toes again! Deciding that whatever had happened was none of his business, he simply slid back into his original seat.

Gaby and Illya were an interesting puzzle. You wouldn’t expect them to fit together (he had a feeling they didn’t expect to fit together either), but they had connected quickly and rather obviously. He wondered how they would fare being separated for this mission.

As it turned out, like opposite ends of the spectrum. Gaby was fine. Stressed and overtired on the first night in particular, but otherwise fine. He felt a little bad for taking her out to dinner despite, but he’d found another feather while hanging his clothes up and had wanted to get as far away from the hotel as possible. And she’d held up well. Gaby was stronger than she looked. The more time he spent with her, the more he was fascinated by her. She was beautiful, no doubt, but she didn’t put stock in it. She would rather be sharper with her wits and with her hands. 

Lord, her hands. He hadn’t spent enough time with her in Rome to pick up on her habits, but she would chew and pick at her nails if she was restless; and she was restless often. It made sense that a dancer turned mechanic had trouble sitting still, but Napoleon mourned her manicure. He found himself taking her hands often, soothing their fidgeting, feeling her calluses against his own, running his fingers over the ring he’d stolen for her, squeezing gently to get her attention. She liked it when he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. She rarely rejected any of his touches, and even returned the favor occasionally (he couldn’t forget that kiss, chaste as it was, though he couldn’t fathom why). 

She...well, she liked _him_. Not in the infatuated way that most people tended to like him either, though he’d caught her staring enough times to know she found him attractive. But she laughed, and she smiled, and she talked, and the honesty behind those gestures caught him off guard. When they’d ventured to a dance hall, bored and with a night to themselves, Gaby had dragged him out to the dance floor laughing, hand tightly gripping his own, drink clutched tight in the other. That hadn’t been the best idea, but it hardly slowed her down. She’d taken his hands and clapped them together, and when she raised them he’d pull her into turns, which delighted her to no end. Napoleon found himself delighted as well.

Illya, on the other hand, hated this mission and was clearly incapable of handling it, considering how not two nights in he started following _them_ instead of Diamez. At first Napoleon had feared it was because of an emergency, but when Peril never approached them at the cafe he knew the motivation was jealousy. That irritated him, slightly, and he knew it would piss off Gaby, so he hadn’t told her. She was perfectly capable of making her own choices after all, and Napoleon, for all he was growing terribly, terribly fond of her, more fond than he’d like to admit or was probably wise, he had no plans to get any closer than the mission required.

At the very least, not until he sorted his own issues out. 

He thought he’d needed rest, but that hadn’t seemed to fix anything at all. There would still be inconvenient moments where it would feel as though someone had dialed up the saturation of the world. There would be too many colors, and they would be too bright, and it would take agonizing seconds for it to go away. 

It wasn’t just his sight, either. His sense of taste and smell would go haywire at meals. It was like playing Russian roulette with every bite: one second his plate of menemen would taste delicious, would smell divine--the next, it’d smell absolutely ghastly and he wouldn’t be able to bear putting it in his mouth. When Gaby asked he claimed it was his delicate American sensibilities protesting Middle Eastern cuisine (in truth, his American sensibilities loved Turkish food, and he was frustrated that he couldn’t even enjoy it to calm his nerves). 

And then, of course, were the nightmares. Nightmares were par for the course in his line of work, and he’d grown accustomed to them, but they usually didn’t involve him waking up in the middle of the night feeling like his skin was literally _crawling_. Napoleon would scramble to the bathroom as quietly as he could and turn the lights on, so he could poke and prod and make sure it wasn’t rippling or sloughing off or whatever else his addled brain could imagine. There was never anything aside from goosebumps. The worst of these was the one horrifying time where he’d splashed water on his face, and looked into the mirror to see something else where his face should be. He jumped back, strangling his own shout so he wouldn’t alert Gaby. He pinched and pulled at his nose and jaw. He felt his own skin, flesh and bone and nothing else. He avoided the mirror entirely when he moved back to the sink to scrub at his face, just in case.

How could he rest when his own head couldn’t let him sleep uninterrupted? He wished Gaby had insisted he take the couch. That being said, she seemed to have a working relationship with her own insomnia, and on more than one occasion he found her disassembling and reassembling various weapons and devices she’d scrounged up. And she didn’t question his own nighttime sojourns, though that was because he kept quiet enough. 

He hadn’t quite intended to speed up the mission like he had, and he supposed Illya had a right to be grumpy about it. But he wanted to get out of here, ideally to a _private_ residence, where no one would be able to see his little outbursts. A desperate part of him hoped that he just needed to leave Europe, or perhaps just needed a proper vacation, and then he’d be alright. A very shaken part of him worried that this was it for the great Napoleon Solo. Something in his grey matter had been fried to bits at Von Trusch’s hands and this was the fallout. So he’d hurried things along. 

He tried to warn Illya off at the tailor’s shop, but that had nearly backfired in his face, since it was the first time Gaby had seen Illya at all since this whole mess started and she wouldn’t. Stop. Staring. At least she managed to twist her misstep to her advantage. The way she’d turned to Diamez, exposing her neck, chewing on her sunglasses with that dark glimmer in her eyes, had Solo abandoning any notion he ever had that she was innocent. And that he was entirely immune to it.

But Peril hadn’t kept away, and then had gone and gotten himself drugged. He should consider himself lucky that Napoleon had gone to the bathroom to deal with another inconvenient sensory nightmare and had heard the sounds of fighting through the window. 

The mess that followed sent Napoleon _reeling_. Illya had bumbled around, more gentle than giant in a way that would have been endearing if he hadn’t also managed to scare the shit out of Napoleon while he was at it. As if having Peril bury his face in his neck like a pillow, breath warm on his neck, wasn’t bad enough.

 _Feathers, down feathers_...

It had taken every ounce of control Napoleon had not to check the back of his neck in public, in front of his friends ( _friends_ ? When had that happened?). He’d lost control enough already just jerking away from the Russian. But being described with feathers when you’re already hallucinating them left and right was alarming, to say the least. Alarming enough that when Illya had then _grabbed his ass_ , Napoleon had seen it as a relative improvement. He had no idea Peril even swung that way--probably good old Orthodox Christian shame keeping _that_ in check. He wouldn’t have minded, if he was being honest, if there wasn’t already enough drama with Gaby alone. The last thing needed was to add Napoleon to that particular fire.

Still, it had set him on edge, and neither him nor Gaby slept for much of the night, paranoid about Illya across the road and anxious about the mission they now had to restructure. He had to admit, he wasn’t proud of how he’d lashed out at Illya the next morning. They couldn’t seem to have a normal conversation without fighting, which left Gaby to intervene. Again. 

While Napoleon had been the one with the idea to play into the truth of Illya’s presence, Gaby was the one who'd come up with selling the idea to Diamez herself. It would placate the arms dealer, and give Napoleon the opportunity to infiltrate his offices for evidence that they now weren’t going to be able to get from a bugged deal. Napoleon didn’t know what to tell her when she’d suggested it; it was a solid plan, he knew she certainly wasn’t naive about sleeping with Diamez, and yet...he still worried. Spy or not this was only her second time in the field and her first mission acting as a honeypot. 

Napoleon had no qualms doing it himself because he’d been doing it for years, and had long come to terms with the fact that he rarely felt anything for other people and hardly when it came to the bedroom (though Gaby seemed to be tearing through this assumption like a bull tearing through a china shop). Manipulating people through sex was, more often than not, a key to escaping a situation sans violence, and if it had gotten “Serial Womanizer” slapped on his file then so be it. 

The chance to infiltrate Diamez’s warehouse office was a chance to blessedly take his mind off of things. That was unfortunately the task’s only benefit. Napoleon got his hands on a receipt or two, but certainly nothing enough to convict. The man hid his trail frustratingly well.

Gaby “snuck” back into their hotel room in the late evening. Napoleon had been on the balcony, reading the same page of a book over and over again and just barely nursing a glass of whiskey waiting for her to return, so his eyes shot to hers the moment he heard the door click. She stared at him for a moment, expression unreadable, before she moved into their bedroom. He set down his unread book and undrunken drink and followed. She was grabbing a fresh change of clothes from their room, but by the time she had Napoleon was standing next to the bathroom door, hands in his pockets in an attempt to look casual. He didn’t want to put her on the defensive--if he wasn’t careful she would think that he saw her as weak, or vulnerable, or incapable of looking out for herself, which he didn't--but he couldn’t _not_ check in on her.

“Are you alright?” He asked, tone as neutral as he could make it. He hoped she gave him credit for his effort to not sound protective or worried. Illya would have been a mess.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” She still said, jutting out her chin. She shrugged. “It was a fun enough time.”

“I...suppose that’s good to hear.” He said slowly. There was a long pause, before he finally sighed and said, “You know I have to ask--”

“He didn’t hurt me.” Gaby huffed. “I feel fine.”

“I believe you.” He nodded. “But if you start to feel otherwise--”

“Why _would_ I, Solo?” She said, words only two steps away from snapping. “It’s sex. It’s over and done with. It meant nothing. There’s no need to protect my virtue.”

“I’m not saying it to protect your virtue.” He replied calmly. He took a deep breath. “I’m saying it as someone who’s also had to...do certain things for a mission. Just because it feels fine in the moment doesn’t mean it will feel fine later. It can be...unexpectedly difficult. I know you get frustrated with the way we try to look out for you, but...you need to look out for yourself as well.”

He knew that was a little rich, coming from him. His behavior in Rome had been reckless at best, running around while still experiencing muscle spasms and _heart palpitations_ like he had. But Gaby didn’t need to follow in his footsteps. Especially if it led to the nightmares and hallucinations plaguing him. 

Gaby stared at him, silent. Looking a little surprised; what he’d just said had been frightfully honest. 

“Thank you,” She said finally, her temper placated, “for your concern.”

“Of course.” He answered, a little too quickly, and he found himself rambling on past it. “Though I hope you will tell me if he ever does hurt you, firstly because it means he sorely needs a _strong_ lesson in treating women correctly, and secondly because--” _I would kill anyone who would dare hurt you_. It was a miracle it didn’t make it out into the open, that his brain caught that part of his heart before it could escape. “--what sort of gentleman would I be if I didn’t teach it?”

Gaby’s head tilted, just barely, indicating she caught the fumble. For a moment he thought he saw frustration in her eyes, a storm cloud decked in browns and golds trying to dig something out of him and furious at not finding what she wanted. But it faded, and she smirked.

“Of course.” She said, before slipping into the bathroom.

Napoleon had dove straight into the liquor after that. He’d cared for people before, of course he had, but this was slipping into dangerously deeper territory, territory he hadn’t been in in a very long time. There was a greedy and spiteful part of him that could imagine the victory of it, of stealing Gaby away from Peril like plucking the sun away from the planets orbiting it. But that felt cruel, and unnecessary. He was a good lover, but he didn’t think he’d ever be a good partner, however it might feel to get one over Illya (which, given recent developments, might not even feel good). Solo was both a legitimate birth name and a fitting moniker. 

He was quite looking forward to wherever the next mission sent them, and if it didn’t involve them being separated he would complain and hem and haw until it did.

The next day was lunch with Diamez, and if all went according to plan, the arms deal as well. 

Of course, things didn’t go according to plan.

“I think the best solution, for both of us, is to be as quick and as...discreet as possible.” Napoleon said, southern drawl tripping off his tongue. “That way we can get out of your hair.”

“But your wife, I highly doubt she wants to cut her vacation short?” Diamez asked, inclining his head towards Gaby. “Especially since she’s hardly had the chance to...experience everything there is to experience.”

Julien really did take Louis Franklin for an idiot.

“This is not the first time Louis has fallen short on holiday.” Gaby said coolly, sipping her champagne. “But I understand the nature of our position. I do my best to make the most of it.”

“Resourceful, you both are.” Julien laughed. “And I will admit, Mr. Franklin, you have a point. I can have my men take you to the warehouse, where you can double check your order. That way, Mrs. Franklin doesn’t have to be left behind all by her lonesome. Then we can meet back here and determine payment.”

“Why not pay up front?” Napoleon countered. “Sort everything out here, then I can check my order on the way out? Get you your money faster’n a hot knife through butter and us the hell out of dodge before we get any more Russkis on our respective tails.”

“My Louis, efficient to the last.” Gaby murmured into her glass. 

“Efficiency can make or break a business, sweetheart.” Napoleon said to her, though his eyes never left Julien’s. He smiled. “I’m sure you understand, enterprisin’ gentleman such as yourself.”

“Of course.” Julien said, though he sounded rather stiff. He was sore at being denied the chance to sleep with Gaby a second time--and likely, the chance to hoodwink Napoleon in some way, by getting him alone. “Follow me, then, Mr. Franklin. Deirdre, feel free to make yourself comfortable. Mi casa es su casa.” 

The men rose to their feet, but so did Gaby, though unsteadily.

“If it’s all the same to you, I will tag along.” She said, politely. “I’ve had a bit too much sun and champagne.”

“Sweetheart, I warned you--”

“And?” Gaby shot back, crossing her arms and looking down her nose at him. In that pose the barest hint of a hickey showed above her collar, red and angry against tan skin. “I insist.”

“And who are we to deny?” Julien said, taking the bait. Together, the three moved into Julien’s villa, towards his office. While the man walked ahead Napoleon took the spare moment to squeeze Gaby’s hand. She squeezed in return. He frowned when he noticed the feel of a different ring than the Tiffany piece he’d given her. He shot her a curious look, even as he spoke.

“My wife often has ideas above her station.” He said. Gaby met his gaze innocently, even as she tucked her hand under her other arm. “No matter how much the numbers make her pretty little head spin.”

“What else is a woman to do but to try, when her husband insists on bringing his business everywhere?” She returned. “Like I said, I make the most of what I can.”

“That you do, Mrs. Franklin, that you certainly do.” Julien said, winking at her as he held the door open for them. One of Diamez’s guards followed them inside. 

“I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Franklin, but just to ensure the integrity of our business, I would like to have my guard pat you down.” Diamez said, moving towards his desk. “I hope I do not offend. I do this to all my customers. You see, for--”

“Integrity.” Napoleon nodded, raising his empty hands in surrender. “I understand quite well. Just go easy on the jacket, I’ve already almost lost one to this city.”

The guard patted him down, and of course found Napoleon’s sidearm, barely hidden in its shoulder holster. 

“Can you blame a fella for packin’ heat after he’s learned a commie’s after his hide?” Napoleon said with a charming smile. Julien nodded.

“It will be returned to you on your way out, I promise.”

The guard did not pat Gaby down, and of course did not find the recording device snuck into her purse. 

That settled, Napoleon pulled out a checkbook and approached Diamez’s desk. 

“Let’s go over the list one more time shall we?” Napoleon said. “Two crates of AK-47s, six crates of Tokarevs, and a crate of the Thompsons.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Julien said quickly, “I have it written down, as well as your total.”

He slid the paper across the desk to Napoleon. Napoleon raised an eyebrow at the figure. He was writing a forged check either way, since Julien would be arrested before he ever had the chance to deposit it, but:

“That’s not the number we agreed upon earlier, Mr. Diamez.”

“Well, that was before you brought your rivals down on my own people.” Julien said, his cheerful mask starting to slip. “Your tail put five of my men in the hospital. You have put undue stress on my business model. It would be remiss of me not to ask for compensation.”

Napoleon knew he shouldn’t haggle. They had the recording they needed. It would only delay getting out of there further. But Louis was a proud American that didn’t like the barest hint of being ripped off. If he didn’t play to that he had a sinking feeling Julien would notice the discrepancy. 

“I didn’t ask to be tailed. While I admit it’s the first time it’s happened this severely, and it rightly is a bee in all our bonnets, I would expect your model to be a bit more robust. I’ll go as high as sixty, but that’s all.” He said, pouring all the suavity he could into southern charm. 

“You came here specifically to arm yourself against rivals, and you did not think your rivals would try to intervene?” Julien fired back. “It was your lack of foresight that nearly cost you this very bargain. Sixty-five.”

“These dealings are your bread and butter, you can’t tell me you’ve never had a snake in the grass before.” Napoleon returned. “Unless you have anything else to bring to the negotiating table other than assaults on my character, I will not budge from sixty.”

Julien tried to stare him down, but “Louis” only smiled beatifically in return. Julien eventually relented.

“You have a point, a small one, Mr. Franklin. Fine, I will...make sixty, suffice.” He huffed.

“I’m sure you’ll squeeze the value out of every penny, Mr. Diamez.” Napoleon grinned. He wrote the check and passed it over. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, sir.” 

Julien glanced over it, chagrined at not getting what he wanted, but didn’t push further. 

“I will have my men escort you to the warehouse. Once you have the quality of my arms assured, you can go on your merry way.” He said, smile forced.

Napoleon nodded to Julien, before gesturing to Gaby, who had been staring out the window looking as bored as a wife could be. “Deirdre.”

She turned to Diamez and smiled.

“Thank you for making our brief time in Istanbul so pleasant.” She said. “Even if so rudely cut short, I will not soon forget it.” 

They made to leave, but Diamez called out to them.

“Ah, wait. Mrs. Franklin, please.” He beckoned her closer. “I cannot let you leave Istanbul without a souvenir.”

Gaby shot a glance at Napoleon, but he nodded. It would be rude to refuse, and the tension in the room was already palpable enough. A rare, rare mistake on Napoleon’s part.

Gaby walked over, heels clicking against the wood as she moved to Diamez’s side. He made a show of opening a drawer in his desk, and then before either of them could react he had a gun pressed to Gaby’s side.

“Didn’t I already say this vacation is unforgettable?” Gaby said breathily, her nostrils flaring the only sign of her alarm. “It has no need to get more exciting than it already has been.”

“Your husband said I couldn’t bring anything more to the negotiating table. I think I can now.” Julien smirked.

“Now, Julien,” Napoleon tried, “I’m sure we can, renegotiate, like gentlemen, without the need for violence. We are men of honor, and yet you hold my wife hostage!”

“I’m sure she doesn’t mind.” Diamez sneered, “This position is familiar to her, no? Sweetheart?” His free hand came around her back to squeeze her hip, his nose brushing her ear. “No honor among thieves like us, I’m afraid.”

Gaby jerked at the touch, but Julien only pressed closer, and if that guard wasn’t training a gun on him Napoleon would have launched something at the arms dealer. But as it were he watched and waited, raising his hands up in surrender like any spooked husband would. Gaby's purse was pressed between her and Julien; his eyes widened and he looked down. 

“What’s this?” He said. He twisted the gun against Gaby’s dress. “Show it to me.”

Goddammit.

Gaby slowly pulled out the tape recorder. 

“What’s the meaning of this? _Recording_ our deal!” Julien snarled. Napoleon, if he ever could be described as one thing, was quick on his feet.

“ _Deirdre?_ ” He gasped, shocked. Gaby, by the grace of God, got the hint. 

“What can I say, Louis?” She sighed, with all the attitude of someone who was remorseful of being caught, not of doing the crime itself. “No honor among thieves like us. I found a better deal.”

“You, _you sold me out_?” Napoleon said, voice cracking for effect. He looked to Diamez. “I--I swear, I had no idea--”

“ _Shut up_.” Julien snapped, pointing the gun at Napoleon for the briefest of moments before returning it to Gaby.

“Drop it on the floor.”

Gaby did as she was told. Julien stomped the device under his heel, and Napoleon flinched at both the sound and the loss of their intel. Fucking _christ_ was anything going to go right on this mission? 

“First, you insult my way of life, my business, asking for my guns at the prices you do. Then you bring a Russian spy down on my head. And now,” Julien practically screeched, “your goddamn _wife_ tries to double cross me!” 

(Well, if one thing had to go right, at least it was their covers.)

Julien lifted the gun to dig it into Gaby’s temple. She winced. Napoleon’s jaw clicked. 

“I swear--”

“You will swear _nothing_ but to pay me double!” Julien cut him off. “And _maybe_ I will let you live.”

“Yes, yes, alright.” Napoleon said, pulling out his checkbook. “Just, please, I know she’s cheated us both, but let her go. She doesn’t know any better, I promise you.”

“ _Write the check_.” Julien hissed.

Napoleon locked eyes with Gaby. To his surprise, though she was clenching her jaw and on the verge of hyperventilating, she looked calm. She waggled her fingers. She winked, though not very well, he almost missed it. Napoleon swallowed, for a moment unsure whether or not to make the gambit. Gaby had been practicing, but was she fast enough to grab the gun before Julien fired it?

It was their best shot out of here. He stepped back to the desk, fumbling with the check but scanning for a suitable projectile. A glass paperweight with gold leaf suspended inside. That would do. He nodded to Gaby.

She closed her eyes. There was a snap, and Napoleon could see the spark between the gun barrel and her temple. He had no time to be impressed, he grabbed the paperweight and launched it behind him. It connected with the guard’s nose with a satisfying _crunch_. He turned, just in time to watch the last of Julien’s gun fall to pieces and Gaby crumple to the ground. Pushing aside his panic he grabbed Julien from across the desk and slammed him down to the surface. Pinning him down, he punched the side of the man’s head once, twice. He grabbed Julien again and dragged him along the desk and then, when it was no longer between them, threw the man into the wall, shattering a rather nice vase. He turned, the guard had recovered and was already raising his arm to shoot. Napoleon ducked and rolled, and the gunshot tore through the wood panelling behind him. He sprung from his roll into the guard and knocked him to the ground. It took him longer than he would have liked to incapacitate the man, but he managed. 

“I’ll be having that back now.” He said, taking his gun back. He stood, practically panting. He rarely engaged in hand-to-hand combat nowadays--after all, his suits were made for charming, not quite disarming--but there was an exhilarating rush to it that he didn’t quite remember ever feeling before. He looked over, a primal part of him hoping Julien had recovered, so he could pummel him again. No, the arms dealer was groaning, awake but slow to recover. With the guard’s gunshot it wouldn’t be long until more security swarmed the place. 

Napoleon darted over to Gaby. She was groaning, just starting to stir, and Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief.

“Gaby.” He said, shaking her gently. “Gaby, wake up.”

Her eyes blinked open.

“Verdammte _scheiße_ ,” She hissed, “mein kopf…”

“I can imagine.” Napoleon nodded, pulling her up into a sitting position. “There’s no time for aspirin, I’m afraid.”

She let him do most of the work getting her to her feet, but by the time he did she seemed more aware of her surroundings.

“I can’t believe that worked.” She said, stumbling a little as Napoleon pulled on her hand. 

“Frankly, neither can I, but we can toast to this new aspect of your Gift _after_ we get out of here alive.” Napoleon said, and dragged her out of the room. He heard shouts down one end of the hallway and they fled down the other. Napoleon led them back the way they’d entered the villa, shooting down the guards that came in their way. They burst out onto the gravel driveway. Diamez’s car was still there, no chauffeur to be seen, and they had no time to consider any other option as gunfire began to kick up the dirt around them. 

“Can you drive?” Napoleon shouted as they ran.

“I don’t know Istanbul!” Gaby cried back.

“Not what I asked!” Napoleon shoved her towards the driver’s seat and he dove into the backseat, the car mercifully unlocked.

“There’s no key!” Gaby snapped, fumbling underneath the car’s wheel. Napoleon reached forward and grabbed her shoulder.

“Use your Gift.” 

The look she gave him was appalled, but she knew traditional hotwiring would take too long. She growled and turned forward, gracing her fingers along the ignition slot. The car’s engine sputtered.

“Come on.” She snarled. “ _Help me_.”

“How--” Napoleon was cut off by the engine roaring to life. 

“You better personally bring me that aspirin on a silver platter, Solo.” She said as she kicked the car into gear and slammed the gas. Napoleon was nearly thrown in his seat.

“Gladly.” He answered.

They barely made it around the curve of the driveway when the car suddenly screeched to a halt, launching Napoleon into the back of Gaby’s seat.

“ _Ow_.”

Gaby didn’t react. She was glaring into the rearview mirror.

“I’m going to kill him.” 

Napoleon frowned, then followed her gaze through the back windshield. His face went slack with surprise.

“You _can’t be serious_.” He said, even as in a stunning case of deja vu the Red Peril caught up to the car, yanked open the door, and dove into the other side of the backseat. Gaby twisted around to face him.

“Illya Kuryakin, you were supposed to stay behind!” She shouted. Illya made to respond but bullets were still pelting the car and the dirt around them. No time to argue.

“Just drive!” Napoleon said, pointing forward. Gaby did not turn back around. She shifted the gears and slammed the car into reverse. Both Illya and Napoleon were thrown backwards. They barely had the chance to recover before there was a _thunk_ and cry of pain from outside the car. Gaby yanked the wheel and the car swerved into a gut clenching donut, just barely missing the roundabout’s centerpiece fountain and knocking a guard into it in the process. She shifted back into drive within a blink and was ramming towards Diamez’s men left and right. The car thunked a few more times, against those who’d missed the opportunity to dive out of the way. Unfortunately that extra turn around the circle meant a few cars immediately got on their tail. 

“Get us back to the hotel, Solo!” Gaby said, the car racing down the drive and back towards the main road. Napoleon quickly reverse-engineered their way here.

“Left!” He called out.

“Illya, why the _hell_ did you follow us?” Gaby snapped.

“What, and leave you two in lion’s den with no backup?” Illya retorted, even as he clung to the passenger seat for dear life.

“Another left.” Napoleon called.

“Which we didn’t need, clearly, we got out of there _fine_.”

“Immediate right.”

“Not fine. _Caught_.”

“Not wholly.” Napoleon pointed out, though it came out more like a grunt as the car swerved around a corner, sending Illya into him. He wheezed under Peril’s weight. “ _Left_.”

“Caught enough, lost recording, Дa?” Illya huffed when the car straightened and they pushed away from each other. He twisted, pulling a duffle bag around his side and into his lap. 

“Well, win some, lose some, Peril.” Napoleon said, trying and failing not to slide into Illya as the car swerved again. A chorus of honks was Gaby’s reward for that stunt. “Again we wouldn’t have been under suspicion if you hadn’t--”

The car swerved again, and this time when Illya slid towards Napoleon he jabbed a fist into Napoleon’s side. Not enough to do damage, but still enough to hurt.

“Oh please that’s not why _you_ were caught--”

The car swerved again. Napoleon used the opportunity to stomp on Illya’s foot. 

“I had the deal _ready to go_ and you had to--”

Swerve. A punch to his thigh, dangerously close to his groin. 

“I was following the _mission_ \--”

Swerve. Illya got a light slap to the face.

“Have you ever even _heard_ of improvis--”

The car slammed to a halt, and once again Napoleon and Illya were launched, this time into the front seats.

“ _BOYS_!” Gaby shrieked. They were stopped at a red light. Gaby slowly turned in her seat, glaring bloody murder.

“ _Put. Your fucking. Seatbelts on!_ ”

They silently obeyed.

Napoleon glanced out the back of the car. He could pick out two cars as Diamez’s; they were stuck in traffic, a few cars behind. At least that was fewer than the five they had started with.

The light turned. The car lurched onwards.

“The hotel is three blocks ahead and one over.” Napoleon instructed quietly, straightening his suit now that he was no longer being thrown about the car. Illya rummaged through his duffel bag.

“You are _lucky_ I followed.” He insisted, pulling out some kind of receiving device. “And I am lucky you decided to wear your ring.”

Gaby made eye contact with Peril through the rearview mirror, and whatever passed between them Napoleon couldn’t figure out, especially when Gaby made a sharp turn again, trying to lose their pursuers.

“Well, things worked out well last time I wore it.” Gaby shrugged. So that’s why she wasn’t wearing Napoleon’s ring; she’d worn Illya’s instead as a good luck charm. Hm. Napoleon would have been offended if it wasn’t so achingly sentimental. Her tone suddenly came out a bit more forced. “I didn’t realize the bug was still working.”

“Me neither.” Illya said, tone also forced. Had Illya told her it was inactive? Or had Gaby deactivated the bug inside of it herself? Neither agent elaborated and Peril moved on. “But I found it working when scanning channels. When Diamez started playing dirty I figured backup recording would be wise.”

Illya pulled out another, smaller recording device.

“So we will not complain about me being backup, Дa?” He huffed.

Gaby didn’t answer in lieu of taking another sharp turn. Soon they came up on the hotel.

“Okay.” She announced. “Napoleon, take us to the dance hall.”

“Why?” Napoleon frowned, watching the hotel loom into view above them. 

“Because we’re still being followed. We need to ditch this car and get another one before getting the hell out of here.” Gaby said.

And, Napoleon realized, since they’d been there before, he would be able to retrace their path from there back to the hotel as well. Using what little they knew of Istanbul to their advantage. Clever.

“Keeping going straight then.”

“How many blocks? I’m going to need to detour.” Gaby said, suddenly gunning it as she weaved around cars left and right. They would be lucky if they didn’t get any _cops_ on their tail for the amount of motorist distress she caused.

“Two, then left for another five.” He said. 

Gaby passed the two blocks, but didn’t turn. The light up ahead was turning yellow. She began to slow down, one of Diamez’s cars riding up behind. Napoleon heard the _ping_ of a silenced bullet hit the rear bumper.

“Gaby...” He warned.

She slammed the gas as the light turned red, swerving around vehicles crossing the other way. Napoleon clung to his door handle as the car screeched, and a quick glance told him Illya had returned to clutching the passenger seat with white knuckles. He heard honks, and then the glass-shattering-metal-denting sound of a car crash. He looked over his shoulder. Diamez’s men had tried to follow them through, and failed. Gaby went one more block and turned, and within a few seconds they were back on the proper course.

“Yes, Solo?” She chirped. 

“Carry on.” He said, nodding. “Take a left after three blocks.”

“That’s my Chop Shop.” Illya murmured, and Gaby smiled wider. He looked over his shoulder through the back windshield. “We have lost them.” 

“Don’t be so sure.” Gaby growled, smile dropping. Suddenly she barked: “ _Hold on_!”

She yanked the wheel, swerving the car through the other lane at a sharp right angle, nearly running down a motorcyclist in the process. Napoleon just glimpsed another car full of Diamez’s men at the next intersection where they were about to turn. Honks followed behind them down the alleyway Gaby had found. Which was quite cramped for the car they were in, as she drove on.

“Is this good idea?” Illya grunted, watching the brick walls around them start to close in.

“It’s fine.” Gaby replied.

“It’s getting narrower.” Illya said, as one of the car’s side mirrors was ripped off.

“I’m used to that.” Gaby shifted gears and the engine roared at an even higher pitch. She clipped some garbage cans and sent them flying, though the impact cracked the windshield. Gunfire _dinged_ against the back of the car. Napoleon and Illya ducked. Gaby didn’t slow down--if anything she sped up, bursting out of the opposite end of the alleyway. The car jerked to the right so violently Illya cursed out loud, and Napoleon couldn’t help but let out a panicked “woah woah _woah_ ” as the car spun a full 180 degrees around a parked truck, sliding neatly into the space behind it. The car rocked, almost fully onto its side against the curb, but settled upright, and was still.

“ _Duck_.” Gaby hissed, and the three of them ducked below the windows. Napoleon heard Diamez’s car follow them onto the street, and rev off...in the wrong direction. Slowly they all straightened. Napoleon blinked: in that brief moment the colors of the world had become saturated again. He rubbed at his eyes and sighed, feeling like it was the first time he properly inhaled oxygen since they’d started running for their lives. Gaby collapsed back in her seat. Illya slowly unclenched his hands from the passenger seat.

Gaby suddenly wheezed, a sound broken and half-hysterical. She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

“Gaby?” Illya asked, brow furrowing with worry. There was only another choked wheeze.

“Gaby?” Napoleon tried, resting a hand on her shoulder from behind. She leaned back at the touch, opening up, and then they could see the wild grin on her face. She wheezed again, but this time it tipped over into full-on laughter.

“ _Krass_ , _das war, das war k-krass,_ ” She gasped, thunking the car door with her fist. “Gott hat entschieden, dass, dass wir erste _und_ zweite Favoriten sind.”

Gaby’s laughter was contagious, and Napoleon couldn’t help laughing himself. He recognized the German phrase. God’s favorites were the Gifted children, so if you had outrageously good luck, you were the second favorite. Even Peril was biting his lip to hide a smile, but Napoleon saw the tremble in the man’s shoulders, the way his breaths came out short through his nose.

“We need to get out of here.” Peril still spoke calmly, the most control out of all of them.

“Ja, ja.” Gaby nodded, breathing deeply to regain her composure. She pointed out the passenger side window across the street. “There’s a parked car over there. I can hotwire it.”

No one suspected them as they drove (calmly and legally) back to the hotel, though they still parked on the backside of the place. Illya tucked his duffel bag under the front seat, not before pulling out and checking his pistol.

“Meet back here in ten minutes.”

Diamez’s goons were in the lobby of the hotel, two keeping watch while a third harassed the concierge, but Napoleon broke them into a service corridor that brought them safely past. The henchmen hadn’t figured out their floor yet, so they were able to get into their room just fine. Gaby darted between the bathroom, the closet, and her suitcase, throwing her clothes and makeup inside with reckless abandon.

“You frighten me sometimes, Gabriella.” Napoleon said as he watched.

“Fear is good for the soul.” Gaby huffed, tossing in her Rabanne haphazardly, making Napoleon wince.

“I’m not familiar with that particular German phrase.”

“That’s because it’s not a German phrase, it’s a Gaby phrase.” Gaby told him, almost challengingly. “We don’t have time to be proper. This is why I don’t bother to hang all my shit up--makes for terrible getaways.”

“Well, the idea is that if you are confident, well-dressed, and know what you’re doing, there won’t have to be a getaway.” Napoleon said, though he moved just as quickly as she did, unracking his clothes from their hangers, folding them with precise military efficiency. 

“Uh-huh, _sure_.” Gaby rolled her eyes. “You’ve had an excellent track record with that so far.”

“More or less.” Napoleon shrugged. He found the bottle of aspirin in his toiletry bag and shook it, the rattle of pills echoing through the room. When Gaby looked he tossed it to her. “No time for a silver platter, unfortunately, but I’m sure I can make it up to you some other time.”

She caught it, glanced down at it before looking back at him. 

“I’m sorry,” She said suddenly, “for not wearing your ring. I know you noticed, but I figured Julien wouldn’t and--”

“Considering it’s the reason we’re going to chalk this mission up as a success,” Napoleon waved it off, “I truly couldn’t care less.”

“Do you want it back?” Gaby offered it in an outstretched palm. She shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m sure there’s a rich housewife missing it somewhere out there.”

“No, but I assure you the young contessa has hardly missed it, more concerned about her Rembrandts as she was.” Napoleon’s mouth quirked up at the side. He stepped forward, but instead of taking it, he closed Gaby’s palm around it.

“Wear it whenever Peril’s pissed you off.” He said with a wink. Gaby scoffed, but a smile wormed its way onto her face anyway. For a long moment they stared at each other, Napoleon for once at a loss for what to say. Gaby looked away first, pocketing the ring.

“Thank you.” She said, turning back to her belongings.

“Always a pleasure.” Napoleon returned, softer than he expected the words to be. He chewed the inside of his lip as he turned back to his own suitcase. This case had been a whirlwind, just like the last one, and yet...he couldn’t deny the magnetic pull he felt towards the small mechanic. As if he was a car under her Gifted hands, the sparks leaping from her fingers to his, bringing him together. The woman who accepted his masks but was never beguiled by them. Who told him his risotto smelled like feet but then ate two helpings of it when she thought he wasn’t looking. 

Distance. They needed distance. She hadn’t even removed Illya’s ring, and Napoleon had watched in the car how they’d practically picked up where they left off. He’d keep an eye on the situation, but unless Peril really managed to shoot himself in the foot, Gaby was off limits. Well, she was off limits anyways, he thought to himself as his senses went haywire again, the lights of their room becoming too bright to bear and the sounds all too loud. Getting together with a madman playing at sanity was the last thing she needed.

Peril was waiting for them in the car, this time riding shotgun. He looked grumpy, arms crossed and finger tapping away.

“You’re late.” He said as Gaby hopped back into the driver’s seat, and Napoleon tucked their suitcases into the trunk. He slid into the seat behind Illya’s.

“By two minutes, Peril.” He said. “We’ll look suspicious if we move too hastily.”

“Every minute we waste brings Diamez down on us.”

“You paranoia is--”

“So help me God if you start bickering again I’m driving back to Diamez’s house and dumping you both there.” Gaby cut him off. They glared at her but stayed silent. She started the car and eased out onto the street. Napoleon shifted his legs, pinned between his seat and Illya’s.

“Could you please move your seat up?”

“No.”

Napoleon sighed, and shifted over to the seat behind Gaby. Peril’s mouth twitched up. Napoleon’s jaw clicked as he looked out the window, surprised to notice that instead of irritation, he felt only exasperated fondness. 

They made the handoff to a liaison in Silviri, who gave them an envelope containing plane tickets for that evening. Napoleon assumed they would be briefed on their next assignment during the flight.

So _technically_ the Istanbul Affair was a success. But technically Rome was a success, and that had seen Napoleon tortured within inches of his life and left with what seemed to be lasting damage. Istanbul was just as much of a mess. Napoleon would be glad to get on the next flight out of Europe.

Or so he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Verdammte, scheiße, mein kopf = dammit, shit, my head
> 
> Krass, das war, das war k-krass = Crass, that was, that was c-crass (German slang, meaning "wild/crazy" either positively or negatively; it's a bit modern for the 60s, but eh, I don't mind playing fast and loose. Gaby's a modern girl.)
> 
> Gott hat entschieden, dass, dass wir erste und zweite Favoriten sind = God has decided that, that we are his first *and* second favorites.
> 
> \---
> 
> Napoleon: hm, I recently went through trauma, and I have firsthand experience of people developing Gifts under trauma.  
> Also Napoleon: no, I'm just going insane. This is just brain damage. Nothing else.
> 
> (a certified Himbo™ moment, though, tbf there are a handful of soon to be revealed reasons he's not making the connection.)
> 
> I had specific plans for how Napoleon's newfound Gift is revealed so I couldn't show my hand too soon, so sorry, no Gift reveal yet, but I think it's becoming clearer and clearer...
> 
> If Whisper Under the Skin was more focused on Gaby and Illya, then this was more focused on Gaby and Napoleon. And by that logic, coming next is....Illya and Napoleon.... get ready for more shenanigans and nonsense and petty bickering to mask true feelings! I also invite you to imagine "I Wanna Be Your Man" by the Beatles playing on the radio during that car chase, because that's what I listened to on repeat writing it XD (I have a whole playlist for this series now, wowza...)
> 
> I am going to warn, however, that the next story is going to be in similar structure to WUtS, so eight chapters, full story. I will not publish until it is complete, as always, and it may take me a while to write (even though I am working on it). I'm also doing Camp Nanowrimo this month to work on my original writing, and I'm working on a short story for an anthology (*and* I'm about to start a full time job...), so I don't think the next installment will be coming out before August. But know that you will be getting something complete and able to stand on its own when it does come out! Thank you so much for keeping with the series, your comments and kudos bring me so much joy after so much time away from posting on here. I'm always willing to entertain questions about the AU (within reason, I can't show all my cards ;) ), if you have any!
> 
> <3


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